


the echoes of scars and the unbeaten road

by Acaeria



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - No Capes, Animal Transformation, Fake Character Death, Family Bonding, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Magic, all i can write is angsty sibling fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26792626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acaeria/pseuds/Acaeria
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a rich man with many children.Bruce is dead. Dick is struggling to hold the family together. When a bear from another world approaches the Waynes and offers them good fortune and the return of something lost in exchange for one of the children, Tim ignores his siblings' protests and accepts the deal. Sequestered away in a lonely mountain castle, he has nothing else to do but wonder: who is this bear? What does it want? And who is the mysterious stranger who sleeps on the other side of his bed every night?A fairytale AU inspired by the Norwegian storyEast of the Sun and West of the Moon.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 37
Kudos: 110
Collections: Batfam Big Bang 2020





	1. 0. Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally posting time! Oh boy. I'm extremely nervous.
> 
> When I signed up to the Batfam Big Bang, I was not expecting to write this much. I wrote so much that this fic still isn't complete, even at almost 50k! Strap in, because this is a long one. For the sake of giving me time to write, I'm uploading the prologue and first chapter today, and then I'll be posting a chapter a week until we're done!
> 
> As mentioned in the summary, this fic is based on _East of the Sun and West of the Moon_ , and particularly on Edith Pattou's novel adaptation _North Child_ , which was one of my favourite books as a child. There are also references to other fairytales, which will be explained in further notes!
> 
> The fic title comes from the song New Constellations by Ryn Weaver.
> 
> Shoutout to my amazing betas [dazebras](https://dazebras.tumblr.com/), [dysfunctionalbatfam](https://dysfunctionalbatfam.tumblr.com/), and [yellow-warbler](https://yellow-warbler.tumblr.com/), who stuck with me even through a fic that ended up being over twice its estimated length! You have the three of them to thank for this fic being as coherent as it is.
> 
> And shoutout to my artists, [butterflyslinky](https://butterflyslinky.tumblr.com/), [sun-lit-roses](https://sun-lit-roses.tumblr.com/), and [succulents-and-fairy-lights!](https://succulents-and-fairy-lights.tumblr.com/) I'll update this fic with their art once it's been posted, and imbed it in the text where relevant!  
> Slinky put together a playlist for this fic that really captured the fairytale vibes, go listen to it [here!](https://butterflyslinky.tumblr.com/post/630959671600119808/image-id-curled-blue-calligraphy-reading-the)  
> Sunny did this really cool symbolic woodcut-style illustration [here!](https://sun-lit-roses.tumblr.com/post/630961063964377088/this-is-the-first-time-ive-signed-up-to-be-an)  
> And Hal did this ADORABLE drawing of Tim hugging the bear which you can find [here!](https://succulents-and-fairy-lights.tumblr.com/post/630959800427151360/heres-my-drawing-for-bullyingbatman-s)
> 
> And without further ado, the fic that has been eating so much of my time! Warnings for referenced death, injury, abuse, and illness in this chapter, though nothing too graphic.

Once upon a time, there was a rich man who had many children.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a man as poor as the dirt beneath his bare and muddied feet. He had been born and raised in a city of light and dark, bustling and industrial, on the edge of modern technology built in a style several centuries out of date. Gaslight lamps lit the streets, and in their shadows, corruption grew ever darker, a stain that could not be washed away. 

When the poor man came of age, his mother banished him from her home, for he had many siblings with hungry mouths to feed, and as a man, he had to earn his own keep. So the man left and went doorstep to doorstep, asking for a job.

“I cannot hire you,” the baker said, “for your hands are too dirty and would contaminate the bread.”

“I cannot hire you,” the factory owner said, “for you own no shoes, and your toes would be injured.”

“I cannot hire you,” said the head reporter, “for you cannot read or write.”

“I cannot hire you,” said the army recruiter, “for you are weak and sickly from years of malnutrition and cannot fight.”

He wandered all over town and could not find work. At night, he lay down in the gutters and cried himself to sleep.

Then, one day, a man approached him on the street. “I would like to offer you a job,” the man said, “for you are dirty and dishevelled and even the most observant of men will turn a blind eye to a beggar-man on the street.” 

And the poor man, desperate and hungry and cold, agreed. Unbeknownst to him, the man who had hired him had a rotten heart and a record a mile long. When the poor man showed up to meet his employer, he was instead met with half a dozen angry policemen, who had no interest in listening to his explanations.

So the poor man ran. He ran from the city, into the hills beyond, and finally collapsed on soft green grass, staring up at the stars above. He was cold and tired and hungry and heartbroken, and as he looked up, he saw the stars above him rearrange. His confusion was overwhelmed by his exhaustion, and he slipped into sleep.

When he awoke, he was lying in a bed, a warm cloth laid over his head, and the air was rich with the aroma of home cooking. He was greeted by an older couple, a man and a woman with bright eyes and gentle smiles, who gave him warm soup to fill his stomach and salves to soothe his aching muscles.

“We found you on the leylines,” they told him.

“The leylines?” he asked.

“Streams of magical energy that flow beneath the ground,” the couple replied. “Strange things happen in the places where they cross. You may start your journey in one world and end it in another.”

The poor man felt alarmed at the idea that this might not be his world. “I must get home,” he told them, and they agreed. Once they were sure he was clean and well-rested and well-fed, they sent him on his way with a new pair of shoes, a jar of their magical healing salve, and their daughter to guide him on his way.

Upon returning to his world, the poor man returned to the city and made his way to the hospital.

“I would like a job,” he told the chief physician.

“What are your qualifications?” asked the physician.

“I have a salve,” said the poor man, “which will heal any injury and soothe any pain.”  
The chief physician expressed his doubts, but the poor man insisted. Finally, the physician acquiesced that, should he be right about the salve’s properties, then he would be given a job. 

They tested the salve first on a woman with bad burns from a kitchen-fire. Sure enough, once the salve had been applied, the burns began to heal, and soon there was barely a blemish on her skin. Then they tested the salve on a man with aching knees from an old injury, and he reported that he felt good as new, proving it by running laps around the hospital garden. Finally, they tested it on a child, weak and sickly and stunted from years of going to bed hungry, and the child shot up several inches overnight, no longer deathly thin and gaunt but healthy.

And so the poor man was given a job and was no longer poor.

He returned to the leylines many a time following his first trip to obtain more of the salve. The couple taught him how to mix it from the magical flowers that grew in the woods surrounding their home, and over time, they stopped being strangers and started being a family– made official when he put a ring on their daughter’s finger and kissed her beneath the wedding arch.

The no-longer-poor man bought the land on which the leylines met with his new fortune and built a house there. He and his wife lived out their days in quiet peace, as did their descendents for generations afterwards, and they all lived happily ever after.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a young couple who lived in a manor on the boundary between two worlds with their loyal butler and young son. In one world, the husband was a doctor and his wife a philanthropist; in the other, they were adventurers, explorers, and procurers of rare and magical artefacts. Most of these artefacts they sold off for a hefty price, but some they would bring home as gifts for their son: a cloak made of pure shadow, a knife that when thrown would always come back, a rope that could never be cut, and a candle that would never go out. 

These gifts, they told him, were to be used when he was older and ready to go on his own adventures, but the boy was impatient. He insisted that his parents let him go with them, and, eventually, they agreed. 

The job should have been easy: they were raiding the abandoned hoard of a dragon. What they hadn’t accounted for, however, was the dragon’s heartbroken lover, who had returned to the hoard to seek her lover’s killers. She did not find that, but she did find two humans stealing the gold and burnt them to a crisp without a second thought.

The young boy, watching from the shadows, fled with stolen dragon-gold weighing his pockets. He returned home in mourning, angry and fearful, and he did not live happily ever after.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a young boy who lived in a caravan with his parents. That caravan was part of a circus, and every night they’d perform tricks before an audience of mice, frogs, and birds who were awed at the sight.

Then one night, Tragedy came to the circus, and the next morning, the boy awoke to find that the people he once called family were now but skeletons.

“You cannot stay with us anymore,” the skeletons told the boy, “for we are but bone, and a circus of bone is no place for a living boy.” 

His mother baked two cakes, one large and one small. “Take the large one, and you will have my curse,” she told the boy, “Take the small one, and you shall have my blessing.”

The boy, used to going hungry, chose the big cake to keep his belly full at night. She wrapped it in tissue-paper, kissed his crown, and sent him to his father. 

His father offered him a golden snuff-box. “Carry this with you always,” he said, “and open it only when you are in danger of dying.”

The boy took the box. His father kissed him on his crown, and sent him on his way.

The boy wandered for many days in the woods, and soon he ran out of cake to fill his belly. He grew cold and weary and hungry and eventually collapsed beneath a tree. As consciousness fled from him, he remembered his father’s words and opened the golden snuff-box.

When he awoke, he was being cradled in sturdy arms against a broad chest. He cracked his eyes open and saw an unfamiliar man looking back down at him. He knew he should be wary of the stranger, but the man’s eyes were kind.

“Don’t worry, chum,” the man told him, “We’ll be home soon.”

Comforted, the boy fell asleep. When he woke up again, he was in a large bed in an even larger house. He made his way out of the room and down the stairs and followed the smell of food to a large, airy kitchen, where an old man placed a plate of food in front of him. As he ate, the man who had carried him came to join him.

“What happened?” the boy asked the man.

“Three tiny men came and found me and told me there was a dying boy who needed my help,” the man said. “I found you beneath a tree, and I brought you home.”

The boy thanked him. “I suppose I should be going soon,” he said glumly as he finished his food.

“Yes, I suppose your parents will be worried about you,” the man agreed.

The boy replied, “My parents are dead.”

“Then your guardian.”

“I have no guardian.”  
“Then, my boy, who looks after you?”

“The grass looks after my feet, the stars guide my way, and the trees shelter me from the rain. And, I suppose, the three tiny men in my father’s snuffbox save me when I am starving.”

“Be that as it may, grass and stars and trees are no substitute for a parent. But I have a home and a great wealth and no lover or child to share it with. There is ample room for you here, should you wish to stay.”

The boy did wish to stay, so he did, and he lived happily ever after.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a young boy, whose father was very cruel. Every night, he sent the boy out to sell matchsticks on the streets, barefoot and shivering, and if he ever returned having not sold a single match, he was beaten for his troubles.

One particularly bitter winter night, he huddled in an alcove between two houses and lit a match to keep himself warm. In the flames, he saw a series of comforting visions: a warm stove, a holiday feast, a happy family. In the sky above, a shooting star streaked across the sky and struck terror into his heart, for his mother had taught him that it was an omen of death.

He looked back at the flame and saw a vision of his mother who, even as he shivered in the street, was very sick in the apartment above his head. In a panic, he struck match after match, desperate to keep the vision of her alive, ignorant to the snow that fell around him, sticking to his skin and clothing and soaking him through to the bone.

When he was on his last match, half-frozen and half-dead, a man appeared from the darkness, holding out a candle. “Here,” he told the boy, “Use your last match to light this.”

The boy did so, and the flame leapt from the match to the candle. The man handed the candle to the boy. “This candle is magical,” he told the boy. “For as long as you will it to, it will stay lit and cannot be put out by anything.”

The boy looked at the vision of his mother dancing in the flame, overwhelmingly grateful for the man’s help before he remembered why he had been on the street in the first place.

“Oh no!” he cried. “I burnt all the matches and did not sell a single one. My father will be incredibly angry with me.”

The man frowned and held out a hand. “Well, let me speak with him. I happen to be quite a rich man, and I may be able to persuade him to spare you his anger.”

The boy was doubtful but agreed. The man took the boy home, and his father was predictably furious. He ranted and raged and would not be placated by soothing words or offer of money. When he reached out to hit the boy, however, the man caught his hand and crushed it in his own. The boy’s father wailed and cursed, and the man informed the father that he would be taking the boy somewhere where he would not be hurt.

“What about my mother?” the boy asked. “She’s very sick, I can’t leave her here with him.”

The father scoffed and informed his son that his mother was already dead. Stricken, the boy ran to his mother’s bedside and discovered that what his father had said was true. However, the flame still burned brightly on the candle wick.

“How did this happen?” the boy asked the man. “She was meant to live as long as the candle burned.”

The man replied, “Perhaps it was not your mother’s life caught in the candle flame.”

And the boy looked back at the flame and saw himself in his mother’s arms and knew the man’s words to be true. Heartbroken at the loss of his mother, he allowed the man to take him away, guarding his life-flame on the candlestick. 

They arrived at a large, stately manor, where the boy was given good food and soft sheets and never went cold or hungry again. He placed the candle on his nightstand where the flame burned with his will to live, and he did live happily ever after.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a young boy who lived alone. He was not meant to live alone, of course, for he was far too young to fend for himself, but his parents were very busy and went away often for work. Sometimes they would pay someone to look after him, but those people never stayed for very long, and so the boy learned to cook and clean and lie to adults who asked him where his parents were.

Often, the boy would lie awake late into the night and stare out of the window at the warm light coming from the manor next door and wish that he could live in a house like that, full of warmth and light and not in the cold, empty house he called home.

On one such night, he noticed that one of the lights in the house had gone out. He put it out of mind, but when it was not lit the next night, or the night after, he became concerned. After that, one by one, the lights in the manor next door began to go out, and his worry increased. Eventually, he picked up his courage and his flashlight, and made his way over the property line.

He was greeted at the manor’s door by an old man. “What brings you here at this time of night, young lad?” the old man asked.

“I noticed that your lights had gone out,” the boy said, “and I was wondering if I could help.”

The old man shook his head, morose. “I am afraid that will not be possible,” he said, “for the young master has gone away and taken all of our light with him.”

The boy returned home, troubled by the news. The following day, he took a trip into the city and filled his bag with candles and matches and lamps and fairy-lights. The following night, he crossed the property line and began to string the fairy-lights up in the trees surrounding the manor. The light eventually summoned the presence of the old man. 

“What are you doing, young lad?” he asked the boy.

The boy replied, “I’m giving you light.” He held out his bag, filled with candles and lamps and flashlights and spare batteries. “These are for inside. I didn’t want to break into your house.”

The old man regarded him and then invited him inside. Nervously, the boy followed him in, and helped the old man set up the lamps and candles, bringing new light to the manor. Finally, they ended up in the kitchen, where the old man made the boy some hot chocolate for his troubles. As he drank, they talked, and the boy explained about his quiet, lonely life in the manor next door.

Midway through their conversation, another man entered the room– the master of the manor. “What’s with all the lights?” he asked the old man. “Who is this?”

The old man explained to him the boy’s plan, and his situation, and the man considered him.

“How would you like to stay here until your parents get home?” he asked, and the boy beamed.

A long and convoluted series of events followed, at the end of which the man asked the boy to stay forever, and the boy readily agreed, and they lived happily ever after.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a princess. Her parents were incredibly protective of her, and never betrothed her to anyone, despite the customs of the land. The King of the Ogres decided he would like her hand in marriage, and exploited this, threatening the kingdom with invasion. With no choice, the king and queen sent their daughter along with her close companion. The ogre-king took the two of them to his castle and, annoyed at the girls’ distress, left to go hunting.

The princess and her companion set about exploring the castle and stumbled upon the ogre-king’s trophy room, filled with the skins of bears he had killed. The companion suggested that the princess should hide in a bear-skin so that they could smuggle her out of the castle and to freedom. However, as the companion helped to sew the princess into the skin, it began to mould to the princess’ body, and she transformed into a bear.

Panicking, the companion escaped with the princess-bear, and they ran to the shore, where a kindly woman allowed them to use her boat to escape. On the journey across the sea, the woman and the companion spoke, and the woman confessed that she was actually a witch. She used her magic to partially turn the bear back into a princess. She informed the princess that though she could walk as a human during the day, she would have to put the bearskin back on at night.

Disembarking on a distant shore, the princess, the companion, and the witch met an adventurer, who offered them a meal in return for their tale. After hearing the ordeal that they’d been through, he offered them a chance to escape the ogre-king’s wrath by staying with him at his manor on the other side of a ley-line which the ogre-king would not be able to cross.

The princess and the companion agreed, and the witch agreed to visit, eventually taking a shine to the adventurer’s oldest son, and they all lived happily ever after.

* * *

Once upon a time, a boy was born at the exact same time as a lily sprouted in the grass behind his parents’ house. The boy and the flower both seemed ordinary at first glance, but if you caught them in the sunlight just right, they would gleam gold. A local soothsayer informed the couple that the lily represented the boy’s life: as long as he lived, it would bloom beautiful and strong.

When he grew older, his father would take him out hunting. One day, on the trail of a stag, the boy grew helplessly lost. Unknowingly, he passed into the territory of a witch, who turned him to stone. At his parents’ home, the lily in the garden withered, and the couple mourned, knowing that it meant their boy had come to harm.

Years went by, and the boy was joined by other trespassers-turned-statues, and his parents grew old in their cottage. When the couple died, they were buried either side of the withered golden lily.

Then, one day, an adventurer stumbled across the witch’s field of statues. Surmising what had happened, he challenged the witch to a duel for the statues’ freedom. If he won, she would turn them back and let them go; if he failed, she would turn him to stone, too.

The witch was confident, for she was slippery and had a great many tricks up her sleeve, but what she did not know was that the adventurer was equally slippery, and had many more tricks than even she could fathom. He won their battle of wit and mind, and, true to her word, the witch let the statues go. 

Many of the former statues left as soon as possible, but the boy with the golden skin stayed to thank the man. The man offered to help the boy find his way home, and the two of them set off through the woods. However, when they arrived, they found the cottage old and worn down, and two graves in the garden, at least a century old, with a golden lily blooming bright between them.

The boy was heartbroken when he learned how long had passed since he had been turned to stone. The adventurer, a kind soul, offered his home to the boy, and the boy, with nowhere else to go, accepted.

They returned to the adventurer’s home, and the golden boy became acquainted with his new family, and while his sadness never left, it did fade with time. His new family brought brightness into his life and taught the golden boy a great many things, and they all lived happily ever after.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a brother and a sister. Their parents were very poor and very cruel, and the two of them grew up with unhappy hearts and empty stomachs. One winter, when food supplies were very low, their parents sent the siblings away to fend for themselves. 

After several days of wandering through the woods, they came across a clearing, in the centre of which was a large cottage made of gingerbread, cakes, and candy with window panes of clear sugar. Excited at such a find, they began to eat the house, only for its owner to emerge and scold them. The blind old woman who owned the house invited them in, provided them with a great feast, and gave them a safe and warm place to sleep.

However, when they woke the next morning, they discovered their mistake: the old woman was not harmless but rather a bloodthirsty witch with a history of eating children. She locked the boy in a cage and fed him a great amount to fatten him up, while she forced the girl to cook and clean and repair the house.

After several weeks, the witch decided she would eat the boy and then figured she was hungry enough to eat his big sister too. She tried to trick the girl into the fire, but the girl feigned ignorance, and the witch, in frustration, went to demonstrate what she meant, only for the girl to throw her into the fire. As the witch screamed, she grabbed her brother and ran.

In the woods, the two of them bumped into a strange man who helped calm them down and listened to their story. When they were done, he asked the siblings if they would like to come and live with him, promising them warmth and food and safety for the rest of their days. The siblings agreed, and the man took them home, and they all lived happily ever after.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a dead man with many children, and they did not all live happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on this chapter!
> 
> The first story here is not based on any particular fairytale, and features an unnamed Wayne ancestor. The second story is, of course, Thomas and Martha's deaths, though once again, it isn't based on any particular story.
> 
> Following this are the various Batkids' backstories. Dick's is based on Jack and his Golden Snuff-Box, an English/Romani fairytale. Jason's is, of course, The Little Match Girl. Tim's, again, isn't based on any particular fairytale. After Tim is Steph and Cass, with Cass as the bear princess and Steph as her companion. It's based on the French fairytale Bearskin (not to be confused with the German story of the same name). The witch who appears in this story is Babs! Duke's backstory is based on The Gold-Children. And, finally, Harper and Cullen's story is inspired by Hansel and Gretel. 
> 
> As for Damian, well. You'll see.


	2. I. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Death**  
>  Upright Meanings: endings, change, transformation, transition  
> Reversed Meanings: resistance to change

Dick stands on the back terrace of the manor. The sun is out for what feels like the first time this year, and he’s enjoying the warmth of it on his shoulders as he sips on a lemonade. Cullen and Duke are out in the garden, playing some kind of ball game that Dick doesn’t recognise. He’s not sure if it’s one either of them learnt back at home or if it’s one they’d made up, but they both seem to be having fun, grinning and yelling teasing comments back-and-forth.

It’s a nice day. Peaceful. It probably won’t stay this way, he knows– the manor is full of too many children (too many _siblings_ ) for that to be possible– but he appreciates the little moments like this as much as he can when he gets them. They seem to be getting rarer and rarer these days.

Then, he spots a figure in the distance, hazy but familiar, and frowns. He leaves his lemonade on the railing and heads out to meet him. As he walks past them, Duke and Cullen stop their game, following his gaze and growing as quiet and discomforted as Dick feels.

As he grows closer, Dick’s worry grows. It’s not often that someone from the other side of the leylines visits the manor, and while Clark is a more common visitor than most– his farm isn’t too far from the portal, and he and Bruce have been friends for years– his body language is… off. He walks slower than usual, head bowed, shoulders stiff, and he’s holding something in his hands that Dick soon recognises as a ceramic jar.

 _A jar, or an…?_ He shoves the thought away, coming to a halt as he makes it within earshot of Clark.

“Clark!” he greets, forcing cheer. “What brings you here on this fine morning?”

Clark looks up at him, and the expression on his face– devastated and sorrowful and filled with _regret_ – is all it takes to knock the breath out of Dick. He holds out the jar– the _urn_ – to Dick. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and Dick just _stares_. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, you can’t be– _He_ can’t be– _no!”_

“I’m so sorry, Dick,” Clark says again, shaking his head, like he doesn’t know what to say, and Dick– 

Dick reaches out and takes the urn, movements stiff, and stares at the jar with disbelief. It’s midmorning on an otherwise ordinary day in Spring, and his world is coming apart at the seams once again. He feels like he’s ten feet up in the air and being pulled apart by the wind, like he’s buried under a ton of rubble and can’t breathe, and he wants nothing more than to give in to the shattering glass in his legs and fall to the grass, but he can feel Duke and Cullen’s gazes on him, burning into his skin, and he knows that he can’t fall apart now, not here, out in the open where they can see him.

So he swallows and pulls the urn close and forces himself back into his body and the present moment. When he speaks, his voice is shaking, but it’s nowhere near as wrecked as he’s feeling, so he counts it as a win.

“Would you like to come inside?”

Clark nods and follows Dick into the manor. Duke and Cullen stare at them with wide eyes.

“Dick–” Duke starts, reaching forward to him, but Dick shakes his head.

“Can you just– give us a little space, please.” He sounds more desperate than he meant to, but Duke nods.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “I’ll keep everyone out of the way.” 

Dick feels a flood of gratitude and makes a mental reminder to thank Duke later. He leads Clark to the downstairs library doors– there’s a door into the study from there, where they won’t be disturbed– but pauses when Damian appears at the doors into the drawing room.

“Grayson,” he states, clearly about to issue a complaint, when he stops in his tracks, eyes flickering from Clark to Dick’s expression to the jar in Dick’s arms, hugged to his chest like he wants to hug the father he can’t have anymore. “Is that–”

“Go inside, Damian,” Dick says, voice hollow. “I’ll come speak to you later.”

Damian’s jaw tightens, his face tight with anger and disbelief, and he marches back inside. Dick watches him go, before turning back towards his own destination.

Nothing about this situation is going to be good, but he feels like Damian in particular is going to be a _problem_. 

* * *

It had been just over a month ago that Dick had gotten the call from Steph.

“What’s up?” he asked, picking up.

“You need to come back to the manor,” Steph said, and her tone gave Dick pause.

“What happened?” he asked. 

“It’s–” Steph broke off, as if she were unsure of what to say. “A kid showed up today.”

Dick waited for an explanation, but none came. “O-kay…?”

Steph huffed, frustrated. “He says he’s Bruce’s son. Like, son-son. Blood son.”

Dick blinked. Waited for the words to make sense. They didn’t. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah,” Steph said, a hint of hysterical laughter in her voice. “He’s got an attitude larger than the manor, and he’s not too keen on the idea of _sharing_ his father with anyone.”

“Sharing,” Dick echoed, the confusion slowly turning to concern in his gut.

“He… may have thrown Tim down the stairs.”

“He _what?!”_

“Tim’s fine! ...Mostly. His wrist is broken, but–”

_“He broke Tim’s wrist?!”_

“Alfred and B had to restrain him, lock him in a room, ‘cause he kept going on about how he’d make sure none of us got in his way and I’m pretty sure he’s plotting how to kill us, and–”

“I’m on my way,” Dick said, cutting her off. 

“Thanks, Dick,” Steph said, relief clear in her voice. “See you soon.”

An hour later, Dick was pulling up outside of the manor. Cass and Steph were waiting on the doorstep. Steph shot him a relieved grin as he got out of the car, and Cass nodded in greeting. 

“Has anything changed in the last hour?” he asked them. Steph shook her head. 

“No, but it’s been… tense. B and Alfred are in the study.”

Dick nodded, making his way into the house. “Thanks, Steph. I’ll… see what I can do.”

“Good luck,” Cass intoned, patting him once on the arm before leaving him to make the rest of the short journey through the house alone. It was meant to be comforting, but it left him feeling more unsettled than anything. 

He knocked briefly on the door before entering. Bruce sat at the desk, head in his hands, while Alfred stood by the window, a sardonic expression on his face.

“Master Dick,” Alfred greeted, with an air of surprise, prompting Bruce to look up. 

“Hey Alfie, B. Steph called me.” He held up his phone and waved it in the air a little before returning it to its place in his pocket. “So. Son, huh?”

“Don’t _you_ start,” Bruce groaned. 

“Who’s his mom? Is he going to be _staying_ here? How’re we gonna explain the whole, y’know, leyline thing? _Are_ we going to explain it?” 

“Oh, he knows about the leylines,” Bruce said. “He’s from the other side.” Huh. Well, that made more sense than the alternative, Dick guessed. “His mother’s a troll princess.”

Dick waited for the inevitable correction and didn’t get one. “A… troll princess.”

“That _is_ what I just said, Dick, yes.” 

Dick counted backwards from ten as he processed the information. If this kid were some kind of prince, it definitely explained the _attitude_ Steph had mentioned. “Why is he _here_ , then? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure trolls aren’t the biggest fans of people. And if he’s some kind of prince, it’s not like he _needs_ you.” Honestly, Dick was wondering how Bruce even got close enough to a troll to conceive a child with one anyway– and then promptly abandoned that line of thought, because he really didn’t want to think about his dad having sex with anyone more than absolutely necessary, _thanks_. 

“Talia likes people,” Bruce said. “Or, she used to. Her father is particularly reclusive, even for a troll. I think it was how she rebelled, going out and spending as much time with humans as possible.” He sighed. “Talia knew that her father wouldn’t be pleased that she’d had a half-human son out of wedlock, so she hid the boy from him, raised him in secret. He recently found out and decided that he wanted Damian dead, so Talia sent him to me.”

 _Jesus Christ._ Dick wondered, not for the first time, how this was his life. “So, we’ve probably got some angry troll king out for our blood?”

“Likely just mine. And Damian’s.” 

“That doesn’t make this situation any better, B.” 

Bruce winced. “I’m aware.”

Dick decided a minor subject change was in order. “How’s Tim?”

A sigh. “A little shaken up. Angry. Physically, he’ll be fine. The break wasn’t particularly nasty; should be about eight weeks until the cast can come off.”

Dick nodded. “That’s… good, at least. I’ll go and talk to him. Where’s the kid? You said his name was Damian?”

“Master Damian is locked in the spare bedroom beside Master Duke’s,” Alfred said. “I’d advise caution if you want to attempt to speak to him, Master Dick.”

Dick rubbed a hand over his face, feeling far too tired for this. “We can’t keep him locked in a room all the time, Alf. I’m pretty sure that counts as child abuse.”

“You might want to take a weapon with you,” Bruce warned, as Dick made his way towards the door. Dick laughed as if Bruce had told a joke, though he was certain the man was being serious. 

“I think I can handle a kid,” he said, nowhere near as confident as he sounded, and let the door close behind him.

* * *

Dick sits in Bruce’s desk chair and stares at the urn, listening numbly as Clark explains how Bruce had come to him for help finding Talia. The two of them had been camping one night, and Clark had left to get water from a nearby stream when he’d heard a commotion. Panicking, he’d run back to Bruce, only to find a bloody patch of bone and ash, and the mark of the troll king burned into the ground beside it.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Clark says, and Dick shakes his head.

“You didn’t– You weren’t– It’s not your fault.” He swallows, and his mouth tastes like ash. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Clark asks, tentative and soft.

Dick shakes his head. “No.”

“Would you like me to stay? I can break the news to the others, if you need some time.”

Dick shakes his head again. “No, no. I can do it. I want to do it.” He reached out and ran his fingers over the urn’s lid. “Thanks, Clark. I can… I’ll handle it from here.”

The look Clark gives him is filled with such pity that it makes Dick feel sick. He hunches over, breathing deeply, choking back angry words and tears. 

“You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?”  
“No. Go, please.”

“Alright.” Clark places a hand on Dick’s shoulder and squeezes as he gets to his feet. “You know where I am, if you need me.”

“Yeah.”

Dick hears the door close as Clark leaves the study through the library, and takes a shuddering breath. He glares up at the urn, sitting on the table, and suddenly feels the urge to throw it against the wall. He reaches up to do so, but the moment his hands close around the jar he freezes as it hits him that this is _Bruce_. The contents of this jar in his hands is all that’s left of his father. He’ll never hear his voice again. Never tease him. Never get one of those rare, bone-crushing hugs. Never catch him smiling when he thinks no one is looking. Never receive another stern glare or admonishment. 

He’s never going to see Bruce again.

The realisation hits him like a truck, and suddenly his vision is blurry, and his breaths are coming in ragged gasps. He pulls the urn to his chest and curls around it, biting back a whine even as shobs shake his shoulders. 

There’s a short rap on the door. “Master Dick?” Alfred calls. Dick opens his mouth to reply, but his voice catches in his throat, and he just sobs instead. The door opens anyway, and then Alfred is standing there, the concern on his face morphing slowly into heartbreak. Dick hears the click as the butler closes the door behind him and crosses the room to where Dick is sitting, holding out his arms.

Dick accepts the invitation, launching himself into Alfred’s embrace and burying his face in his pseudo-grandfather’s shoulder. The urn presses uncomfortably between them, but he can’t bring himself to care, and Alfred doesn’t complain, just wraps his arms around Dick and holds him as he cries. If Dick feels his own shoulder dampening, he doesn’t mention it. 

Finally, the two of them pull apart, Dick scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand as Alfred grabs a tissue from the box on the desk and blows his nose.

“Alfred,” Dick says, wincing at how wrecked his voice sounds, “What are we gonna do?” _What am_ I _gonna do?_

“We are going to be alright, Master Dick,” Alfred tells him. “We will figure something out, I’m sure.” Dick nods, feeling lost and small and so, so _young_ . He and Bruce had had a conversation about a year ago now, when Bruce had been updating his will, and Bruce had asked Dick if he’d feel comfortable taking custody over his younger siblings in the event that something should happen to him. Dick had agreed almost immediately, because _of course_ he’d look after them, but now that he’s being faced with the prospect, he feels terrified. He’s older now than Bruce was when he’d taken Dick in, and Dick wonders just how he’d managed it, because the idea of being responsible for even just _one_ of his siblings is making Dick’s stomach turn.

“I need to– tell the others,” Dick says, gesturing weakly. Alfred nods.

“Yes. I think word has gotten around, but they’ll be wanting confirmation.” He places one hand against Dick’s back, taking the urn from him with the other, and starts to guide him towards the door. Dick almost snatches the urn back, but stops himself.

Bruce is gone. Bruce is _gone,_ and clinging to his ashes doesn’t change that or make the situation any better.

He lets Alfred guide him away and tries to figure out just what he’s going to tell his siblings.

* * *

Dick knocked gently on Tim’s door and waited for the soft, “Come in,” before entering. Tim sat in his bed, propped up against pillows, his laptop balanced on his knees, and a plaster cast on his right wrist. Dick winced upon seeing it.

“At least it’s the right one,” he said, and Tim snorted.

“I taught myself to write just as well with the right one as the left. I’m pretty sure we can _all_ write using our non-dominant hands.”   
“Well, yeah,” Dick said, “but it’s not the _same_.” He made his way into the room, sitting down at the foot of Tim’s bed. “How’re you holding up?”

Tim sighed, flipping the lid of his laptop shut and leaning back against the pillows. “He’s going to be staying here,” he said, “isn’t he.”

Dick winced. “I don’t think anybody _wants_ him to. But if we send him away, there’s a very good chance he’s going to be murdered.”

“So we just let him stay until he murders one of us?” Tim snapped and then sighed. “Sorry.”

“You’re allowed to be angry, Tim. He hurt you. Hell, I’m angry, and I haven’t even met him yet.”

“This situation is just… so messed up,” Tim said. “I’m willing to give him a second chance, Dick, I really am, but…” 

“I’m going to try and talk to him. See if I can knock some sense into him.”

Tim snorted. “Take a weapon,” he said, and Dick rolled his eyes.

“You’re just as bad as B,” he teased. Tim pulled a face. 

“Are you staying?” he asked. Dick nodded.

“At least for a couple days, until all of this has calmed down.” 

“Good.” Tim hesitated. “If he doesn’t get any better, can I– that is, I was wondering–”

“You can ask me, Tim, I won’t bite.”

“Could I come live with you?” Tim blurted. Dick blinked. “I just– If he’s just gonna be _like this_ , I don’t think I can stay here. I won’t feel safe, and I just _can’t_ , Dick.”

“Of _course_ you can, Tim,” Dick said. “I have the space, and you’re all more than welcome any time, you know that.”

“But… if I stay long-term, that’s okay?”

“It’s more than okay. We’ll have to figure stuff out with Bruce and your school, and we might have to shuffle around some custody agreements, but you don’t need to worry about any of that. You’re more than welcome to stay. And, to be perfectly honest, it’d be a load off of me, having you with me and not sharing a house with the murder baby.”

Tim laughed. “Don’t let him hear you say that. I think he’s got knives on him.”

“How old even _is_ he, anyway?” 

“I dunno, like, ten?”

“Ugh, worse than a murder baby. A murder _toddler_.” 

Tim giggled and shoved Dick playfully with a foot. “Seriously, he’s gonna hear you and smother you in your sleep.”

“You’re really worried that he’s gonna kill someone, huh?” Dick asked, the lightness in his tone fading. Tim winced.

“You didn’t hear him, Dick. Some of the things he said to me…” He shook his head. “I _want_ to say we should just leave him for his grandfather to find, but he _is_ just a kid. The world’s worst, most murderous kid, but a kid. And I’m not so far gone that I’d advocate for _child murder_.” 

“We’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, except both of those things in this situation are ‘children dying.’” He pushed himself to his feet. “Well, time to go face the music. And by music, I mean a screaming demon child.”

“We could record the yelling, set it to music, and sell it as some kind of screamo album.” 

“If we ever start running low on money, I’ll consider it.”

“Ah, so never, then.”

Dick smiled, and reached over, ruffling Tim’s hair. “See ya, kiddo. If I don’t make it to dinner, tell the family I love them and tell Harper that she owes me twelve dollars and I expect it to be delivered to my grave.”

Tim nodded, expression faux-solemn. “Good luck, soldier.”

Dick gave a jaunty salute and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him and letting out a sigh. The conversation with Tim had been the easy part– now he was faced with the real challenge. 

* * *

Dick walks into the den to find the rest of the family already there. They’d clearly been talking, but as he enters the room, their conversations die down, and they turn to stare at him, hesitant and concerned and upset, and Dick has to resist the urge to turn around and flee. He couldn’t get away with it, anyway, with how Alfred is standing at his back.

Duke, Cullen, and Tim are all squashed up on one of the couches, while Steph and Harper have attempted to both sit on the same armchair, Cass perching on the back of it. Damian sits alone on another sofa, arms crossed and glaring. Dick stands there and doesn’t know what to say. His words catch in his throat.

“Is it true?” Tim asks, when it becomes obvious that Dick’s struggling to speak. “Is he really…”

Dick nodded. “Yeah,” he choked out. “Bruce is… Bruce’s dead.”

The silence in the room weighs heavy like a stone. Dick feels his legs tremble beneath him and walks over to the nearest armchair, sitting down heavily before his knees buckle and send him careening down against his will. 

“What’s gonna happen to us?” Cullen asks, his voice quiet but so deafeningly loud inside the room. Harper is tense, and Dick knows that if he doesn’t answer this question in a way she likes, she and Cullen will be gone by morning. He can’t let that happen.

“Bruce and I talked a while ago about me taking custody of you all should something happen to him. It’s in his will, along with some paperwork that will make it official. I’ll be moving back into the manor, and none of you have to go anywhere, alright? It won’t be– I’m not Bruce. I can’t be Bruce. But I’ll be here. This is still your home, and we’re all still family.”

The words don’t feel like enough, but he can’t find better ones, so he lets them sit. 

Damian stands up abruptly and stalks out of the room without saying a word. Dick considers following him but decides that he’ll step in if he hears any destructive noises. For now, if Damian wants to be alone to grieve, Dick will let him.

Cullen is crying, face pressed against Duke’s side, as Duke wraps one arm around him. Duke rests his head on top of Cullen’s, and Dick thinks he might be crying too. Harper’s posture is still stiff, but her face is slack and shocked, staring into the middle distance like she’s waiting for all of this to make sense. Steph has gotten out of her seat and stalked over to the window, back to the rest of the room, fists clenched and shoulders shaking. Cass has vanished without Dick even noticing. 

Tim’s eyes are red-raw, and he’s shaking as he stands and makes his way over to Dick’s chair. “Are you okay?” he asks, softly, and Dick chokes back a laugh.

“I should be asking you that,” he chides. “I… We’ll be okay, Tim.”

Tim frowns at that, like it wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear but nods, squeezing Dick’s shoulder. “I’m here if you need me,” he says, and Dick can’t help but think how much he’s going to need Tim– need _all_ of them– over the next few months.

* * *

As Dick approached the room that Alfred had directed him to, the muffled yelling he could hear before solidified into actual words.

“How dare you?!” the kid screeched. “Do you know who I am? Do you know what I’m capable of?!” 

Dick braced himself, turned the key in the lock, and stepped into the room, shutting it quickly behind him. He was taken aback to see just how _normal_ the kid looked– but then again, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Damian was flushed and scowling, tied to the bed with one wrist with one of Bruce’s unbreakable ropes, hair tousled and sticking up all over the place. The kid was almost _cute_. Of course, he’d also tried to kill Dick’s little brother, so he wasn’t about to let appearances deceive him.

“Damian, I presume?” he asked, as the kid’s yelling cut off. 

“And you are…?” 

“Dick Grayson. I’m the eldest.”

Damian’s scowl deepened. “The eldest _pretender_ . You’re aware that I’m here now, yes? His _actual_ son? He doesn’t _need_ any of you any more.”

Dick didn’t bother to hide the anger that surged in him upon hearing the words, and the kid seemed caught off-guard by it. “Listen here,” Dick told him, “I don’t care who your parents are. I don’t care where you come from. The only thing that defines you, Damian, is _you_. Your actions. Your words. And right now, I can’t say they paint a very good picture.” 

“I–”

“Nope. You’re gonna hear me out, okay?” Damian clamped his mouth shut and glared sulkily. Dick continued. “Bruce adopted me. Bruce adopted all of us. In this house, family isn’t blood, it’s by choice. Spout off about blood all you want, it _doesn’t matter here_. You’re no different from the rest of us.” 

Damian’s scowl had turned confused and– devastated? Dick scanned the kid’s expression again, hoping that he’d misread it, and when his first glance checked out, he sighed. “Look, kid, I’m gonna be honest, the people in this house? Are not very endeared to you right now. You got off on a _major_ wrong foot. But Bruce isn’t gonna kick you out. Right now it’s mostly because if we send you away, there’s a good chance your grandfather might murder you, and B has a soft spot for kids in trouble– case in point.” He gestured to himself, and then back towards the door, indicating the others. “But just because you got off to a bad start, doesn’t mean you can’t fix that.”

Damian shot him a withering look. “Considering everything you just said, I fail to see _how_ , Grayson.” 

Oof, last name, huh? “Well, you could start by apologising.” The kid scowled. “And, once you’ve done that, you could try being polite. And not trying to kill anyone?” 

“I wasn’t _trying_ to kill him; he just needed to learn his place.”

“His _place_ is as a loved and valued member of this family, and if you want to be part of it, you’ll have to respect that, too. The same goes for all of us.”

The kid crossed his arms and huffed, but he looked contemplative. “So, if I agree to _apologise_ –” he spat the word like it had a bad taste– “and not to hurt anyone, you’ll untie me?”

“Yeah. I imagine Bruce or Alfred will talk you through the other ground rules, and you’ll have to follow those as well, but those are my two conditions for your immediate release.” He tried to lighten his tone at the end, but judging by Damian’s expression, it didn’t land.

“Fine,” Damian said. “I accept. Now, if you will, Grayson, the ropes.”

Dick tried very hard not to roll his eyes, moving forward to untie the kid. But somewhere deep inside of him, he found himself surprisingly pleased– that had gone a lot better, and been a lot easier, than he’d expected. 

As he glanced at Damian, now free, rubbing at his wrist and frowning intently, a small spark of hope blossomed in his chest. Maybe there was still a chance that Damian could fit into the family after all. 

* * *

“Cass is gone,” Steph says, appearing in the doorway. Dick, elbow-deep in paperwork, blinks up at her in confusion. 

“What?”

“Cass is gone,” Steph repeats, arms crossed.

“I’m going to need more context than that, Steph.”

“I hadn’t seen her all day, so I went looking. A bunch of her stuff is missing, including her bearskin. And then I found this–” she holds up a scrap of paper– “on her desk.” She places the paper down on the desk, and he turns it over, reading the note scribbled in uneven pencil letters.

_Gone. Need to clear head. Goodbye. -C_

“Ah,” he says, stomach sinking. He bites his lip. “Babs should be coming by soon. We can get her to use a tracking spell–” 

“You should have stopped this!” Steph snaps. Dick gapes.

“I– how was I supposed to know?”

“Uh, maybe because you’re her _big brother,_ and you should know when your siblings are doing things like _planning to run away!”_

Dick feels guilt cloy in his stomach, because– she’s right. Dick _should_ have known. But Cass was– Cass had been upset, sure– they were _all_ upset– but Dick thought she’d been handling it well. She’d helped Dick deal with Damian’s outbursts a couple of times in the days since they’d received the news, and she’d been distant, but he hadn’t ever considered that she’d been planning to run away.

“You’re right,” he sighs. “I _should_ have known. I’m sorry, Steph, and I promise you, I’ll do everything I can to find her.”

Steph glares at him. “ _I’m_ not the one you need to apologise to,” she says, before turning on her heel and leaving. Dick stares after her and sighs, burying his head in his hands. He hears familiar footsteps and glances up as Alfred enters the room.

“Master Dick,” Alfred greets, placing a coffee down on the desk. Dick picks it up and takes a grateful sip.

“How did Bruce do it?” he asks. Alfred snorts.

“You and I both know that Master Bruce was by no means perfect, sir. He struggled plenty with knowing how to handle you all. He never knew the right thing to say.”

“I know,” Dick sighs. “It’s just… I feel so lost, Alfred. I don’t know how to help them. All I know is that they need me.”

Alfred opens his mouth to reply, but doesn’t get the chance to as a large crash echoes through the manor’s halls, followed by muffled yelling. Dick shoots out of his chair and runs towards the source of the sound. 

He bursts into the great hall, taking in the scene before him. Tim is on the ground, the chandelier lying in pieces around him. Damian stands on the stairs, flushed and red-faced, a kitchen knife gripped in one hand.

“What is going on here?” Dick demands. 

“He attacked me!” Tim cries, glaring up at Damian. Damian snarls.

“Grayson, Drake said–” 

“I don’t care what he said,” Dick says, trying very hard not to lose his temper, “You should never resort to violence! What happened to our agreement?”

Damian scowls. “It’s not as if that matters anymore,” he snaps. “Father is dead, and you’ll be rid of me soon enough.”

There was a lot to unpack there. “Damian, we’re not getting rid of you,” he says after a moment. Damian’s face declares exactly what he thinks of that. Dick decides that he can deal with that later and turns to Tim. “Are you okay?” 

Tim nods, pulling himself up, and then winces, his hand pressed against his thigh. Dick walks over and pulls the hand away to reveal a bloody shard of glass embedded in Tim’s skin and hisses in sympathy. 

“Alfred!” he calls, and Alfred, who had been hot on Dick’s heel, comes to take a look. 

“Come with me, Master Tim,” he says, taking Tim by the shoulders. “We’ll get this healed up.” 

Tim nods, a pained expression on his face, and limps after Alfred. 

Dick turns back to Damian, and holds out a hand. “The knife,” he says. Damian scowls, but reluctantly hands it over. Dick takes it and places it on a nearby countertop before crossing his arms and glaring at Damian.

“So, do you want to explain what that was all about?”

Damian refuses to meet his eyes. “Is it true?” he asks, instead of answering. Dick huffs, frustrated.

“Is _what_ true?” 

“Was it– Did– My grandfather. He killed Father.”

Ah. _That_. Dick had made the decision not to tell Damian the truth. The kid was already having trouble settling in, nevermind grieving for a father he barely knew, and Dick felt like the truth of Bruce’s death would send the kid over some edge. Judging by the mess of broken glass on the floor, he had been right.

“Yes,” he admits, “that’s true.”

Damian stares at him. Dick can’t quite read his expression. “Very well,” Damian says, voice oddly stilted. “I will be gone by morning.”

Dick _stares_ , more confused by this conversation than he has been by any other of his confrontations with Damian. Damian turns to ascend the stairs, and Dick lunges forward, grabbing him by the wrist and tugging him to a standstill. “Hey,” he says, “what?”

“Let go of me, Grayson,” Damian says, attempting to pull away. Dick doesn’t loosen his grip.

“Damian, what do you mean, you’ll be gone by morning?”

Damian flushes. “Don’t act dumb, Grayson. It’s unbecoming.”

“I’m not _acting_ ; I’m genuinely confused. What are you talking about?”

“Father is dead. Grandfather killed him. He’s had his revenge, which means that he’s no longer after me. You don’t need to protect me anymore.”

“Damian, it’s not– We’re your _family_. Whether or not you’re in danger, you still have a home and a place here.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Damian snaps.

“I’m not lying–”

“The only reason I’m still here is because _you_ pity me! Nobody else in this house likes me. They’d be happy if I were gone. And don’t– don’t think I don’t know–” Dick thinks, for a second, that he can see tears glistening in Damian’s eyes, but that _can’t_ be right. Can it? “Don’t think I don’t know that father left because of _me_ ,” Damian says, voice hoarse, and Dick jolts in surprise, letting go of Damian’s wrist without meaning to. Damian pulls it up to his face, wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Father left because he wanted to find Mother, so that she could take me back. But she doesn’t want me, either. None of you do. So I’ll just– I’ll just go.”

And then he’s gone, taking the stairs two at a time. Dick stares after him, hears his bedroom door slam shut, and rubs his hand over his face. _Shit._

* * *

Duke, Steph, and Cass hovered on the stairwell, watching with rapt attention and astonishment as Dick herded Damian down the stairs and left him at the study, before returning to give them a pointed look, eyebrow raised.

“I can’t believe it,” Duke said, voice hushed with awe, “You actually managed to get him to stop.”

“How?” Steph asked. “How’d you do it? What foul tricks did you employ?”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Secret big-brother powers,” he said. “You three doing okay?”

Cass nodded decisively. “Yes.”

“He’s not gonna kill anyone?” Duke asked, eyeing the corridor Damian had disappeared down a little nervously. Dick shook his head.

“No, I think I talked him out of it. I can’t guarantee he’ll suddenly be _nice_ , but he shouldn’t be a danger to be around.”

“Oh, thank god.”

Steph went to move up the stairs. “I’m gonna let Tim know that the gremlin-bomb has been defused.” Dick fought a smirk. 

“Thanks, Steph!” he called. Then, turning back to Duke and Cass, he asked, “Where are the others?”

“Treehouse,” Cass said, a small smile on her face as she lifted a finger to her lips. “Hiding.”

Dick smiled back. “Smart move. I’m gonna go check in with them, let them know that it’s safe to come back inside.”

“We’ll go wait by the office, just in case something goes wrong,” Duke says.

“Or,” a voice called up from the hall, and all three of them glanced over to see Alfred standing there, “you and Miss Cassandra can help me with dinner, Master Duke.”

“Or that,” Duke agreed. “C’mon, Cass.”

Dick waved to them and nodded to Alfred as he headed through the drawing room and out onto the terrace.

The treehouse was a short walk from the manor, located in a large tree that was good for climbing. It had been one of Dick’s favourite places to play as a kid, and as a birthday gift one year, Bruce had built him a small house up in its branches. The house had been repaired and extended over the years so extensively that it was almost unrecognisable compared to the original that Bruce had built, but it still filled Dick with that rush of warmth all the same. As his siblings had come along and found a home at the manor, the treehouse had changed with them, gaining new artefacts and decorations– small, personal touches from each of them: Tim had strung up fairy lights; Cass and Steph had moved in blankets, pillows, and beanbags; and Cullen had hung a pride flag on one wall. These days, it was a cozy place for hang-outs and sleepovers and somewhere just far enough away from the chaos of the house to clear your head if you needed it.

He pulled himself up into the branches and knocked on the door. 

“What’s the password?” Harper’s voice called out.

“ _Batman_ ,” Dick replied and heard shuffling from inside as the latch on the door clicked, and it swung open. Harper looked over him in faux-suspicion before moving to the side.

“You may enter,” she intoned.

“Thank you,” Dick said, making his way into the treehouse. Cullen was sitting on one of the beanbags, Switch in his lap, though he’d paused whatever game he was playing to wave at Dick as he entered.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Cullen said. 

“Steph called, told me that you were having a bit of a situation.” Harper snorted at that as she bolted the door behind him. “How’re you two holding up?”

“We’re fine,” Cullen said, though his reply was almost drowned out by Harper’s complaint of, 

“Bruce said this place would be safe.”

Dick winced. “I don’t think he anticipated _this_.” 

“Hmph.” Harper crossed her arms. 

“If it makes you feel any better, the situation’s been diffused. Murder baby has promised no more murders.”

“You think he’ll hold to it?” Harper asked.

“I think he better,” Dick said darkly, and Harper cracked a smile. 

“You went all ‘scary big brother’ on him, huh?” 

“Well, it worked, you’re all _very_ welcome.” 

Harper rolled her eyes, but relaxed. “Well, it’s good to know that we don’t have to move out here permanently. Not that the treehouse isn’t nice and all, but I really like indoor plumbing. And central heating.”

“And Alfred’s cooking,” Cullen chimed in with a grin. He glanced between the two of them, a little nervously. “It’s really gonna be okay, Dick?”

“Yeah, kiddo,” Dick told him. “It’s gonna be just fine. Come back to the manor with me? I promise I’ll protect you from the gremlin.”

Cullen laughed. “Bold of you to assume I couldn’t defend myself!”

“With _those_ twig arms?” Harper teased, lunging forward and ruffling her brother’s hair. Cullen yelped, reaching up to bat her hand away, and Harper responded by dropping all her weight onto him, trapping him beneath her.

“Harper!” Cullen whined, as Harper attacked his sides with wriggling fingers. Dick bit back a grin as Cullen’s giggles filled the air. “Dick–” he wheezed, “Help me!”

“Sorry, Cul, no can do,” Dick said, faking sorrow. “Older sibling solidarity.” 

“Harper!” Cullen whined again. “Uncle, uncle! Lemme up!”

Cackling, Harper let up, standing and helping a dishevelled Cullen to his feet. “ _That’s_ why you need me and Dick to protect you from the new kid,” she said. 

Cullen rolled his eyes, smoothing out his shirt and attempting to fix his hair. “Yeah, well, who’s gonna protect me from you two?”

“Maybe Cass will, if you ask her nicely,” Dick teased as he unlocked the door. “C’mon, Alfred’s making dinner, and I don’t know about you two, but I’m _starving_.” 

* * *

Dick is way, way out of his depth. 

He considers going after Damian but decides that the kid needs some time to calm down first; besides, what can he even _say?_ So he makes his way to the kitchen where Alfred is finishing dressing Tim’s wound. 

“How is it?” he asks, leaning back against the counter.

“It needed a couple of stitches, but it should heal just fine,” Alfred says. Dick nodded, shooting Tim a worried look.  
“You okay?” he asks. Tim shrugs. Dick sighs. “You told him about Bruce.” 

Tim winces. “I just– He was going off about how he’s Bruce’s _blood son_ and he has more right to be here than the rest of us and how it’s an insult that the grandson of the troll king should have to put up with the likes of us, and I just– I snapped.” He hunches in on himself. “I know I shouldn’t have said it. I was just angry.”

“He shouldn’t have reacted the way he did,” Dick tells him. Tim brushes his hand over the bandage on his thigh. 

“Is your offer still open?” he asks. Dick frowns.

“What offer?”  
“About living with you.”

Oh. _That_. Dick winces. “Tim, I’m living here now. I can’t just leave. Everyone needs me.”

The look Tim gives him is full of hurt and betrayal, and Dick kind of feels like the worst person on earth right now. “Then– then if you’re staying here, maybe I could move into your apartment?”

“ _Alone?_ Tim, you’re sixteen.”

“I lived alone when I was much younger.”  
“Yes, and you shouldn’t have had to. That was criminal neglect. That was abusive. I’m not letting you live alone. It’s out of the question.”

“Well– what if Cass came with me? She’s an adult.”

“Tim, Cass left.”

“She– she what?”

Dick runs a hand through his hair. “Some of her stuff’s gone. She left a note saying she needed to clear her head. I don’t think she took her phone.”

Tim’s face doesn’t crumple, but it comes close. “She just– she just left? Without saying goodbye?”

Dick steps forward, reaching out. “Tim, I’m–”

Tim pulls away, getting to his feet. “I’m gonna go take a nap.”

“Tim–”

“I’m tired, Dick. Haven’t been sleeping great.” His mouth twitches in a half-hearted, empty smile. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Dick watches him limp out of the room, his arm still outstretched. Alfred reenters the room, having disposed of the bloody needle and bandages, and shoots Dick a look that he remembers often being sent Bruce’s way. _You need to do something about this_. He sighs.

“I know, Alfie,” he says, “I know. But I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, sir,” Alfred says, making his way out of the room. Dick collapses in the chair where Tim had sat and wishes that Bruce had come back.

“Well, that went well,” a voice comments sarcastically, and Dick jumps, glancing up to see Harper in the doorway to the pantry.

“How long have you been here?” he asks. Harper shrugs.

“Long enough. I was getting a snack when Alfie brought Tim in, and I didn’t feel like getting another lecture about snacking before dinner.” Dick nodded, understanding.

“What do I do, Harper?” he asks, feeling more than a little hopeless. Harper shrugs.

“I dunno, dude.” She slides into a seat opposite him. “I’m your _little_ sister, remember?” 

Dick smiles, remembering Harper’s first few weeks at the manor, and how she’d fought back against every little thing, refusing any and all help. She hadn’t let any of them get near Cullen. When Dick had asked her why, she’d responded, _He’s my little brother_ . Dick had told her, _Well, you’re_ my _little sister. Let us help you._ Both _of you_. And Harper had.

He remembers feeling stressed at the time. What he wouldn’t give for his conflicts to be that simple right now.

“But you’re Cullen’s big sister,” he says. “How would you handle this with him?”

Harper frowns. “If someone in this house hurt Cullen? I’d take him, and I’d run far, far away. Maybe deck the person who hurt him first.” 

“And if Cullen hurt someone else?”

“Cullen?” she snorts. “He _wouldn’t_.” 

“But if he did?”

She shrugs. “Try and figure out why. He probably had a good reason. And if he didn’t? I dunno, man, I think he’d be feeling pretty awful about that already. I don’t see how this helps, anyway– Cullen and Damian are two very different people.”

Dick sighs. “That’s the problem. Damian isn’t like the rest of us. I don’t understand him, and I can’t get through to him.”

“The guidance counsellor at school told me that the only reason people hurt other people is because of some deep-seated insecurity. I think it’s a bunch of bullshit, personally, because sometimes people are just assholes–”

“Language,” Dick chides, but it’s a struggle not to laugh.

“But if you think you can maybe salvage something with Damian? Maybe try and figure out what that insecurity is.”

Dick hums, mulling it over. “I guess it’s worth a shot. Not like I’ve got any other ideas.” He shoots her a thoughtful look. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any advice about how to handle Tim?”

Harper snorts, getting to her feet. “Nope. You’ve had your daily allotted sibling advice from Harper. If you want more, you’re gonna have to pay for it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make sure Steph doesn’t break anything else.”

Dick winces.

“How mad is Alfred going to be?” he asks. She laughs, and Dick’s stomach sinks.

“Good luck,” she tells him and pats him on the arm as she leaves. Dick stares after her and then buries his face in his hands with a groan.

* * *

Bruce called Dick into his office three weeks later. Dick had taken a leave of absence from work, claiming a family emergency, and had been staying at the manor to help ease everyone through the transition period. It hadn’t been easy– even when he wasn’t screaming bloody murder, Damian was bratty and disobidient and _frustrating_ – but Dick’s presence had helped calm the others, and he’d lost count of the amount of arguments he’d managed to diffuse during his stay. Things were slowly levelling out, and Dick hoped he’d be able to return to his apartment– and to work– soon. He was already getting pointed messages asking when he’d be back, and he knew if he stayed away much longer without a medical excuse, he probably wouldn’t have a job to go back to.

So, he was understandably a little upset when Bruce broke the news.

“You can’t _leave_ , Bruce!” 

“Look, Dick, I know I’m asking a lot of you, but–”

“I don’t mind looking after the others, but I’ve already been here for three weeks! How do you think Damian’s gonna react to you leaving, huh? He’s going to be so much worse than he already _is_.” 

“I know,” Bruce said. “That’s partially what this is about.”

Dick blinked, caught off-guard. “What?”

“Damian is… a lot. I don’t know– I don’t know what I’m doing with him, Dick. I need help, advice.”

“ _Oh_ .” Dick gaped. “That’s… wow. Sorry, I think I may need to sit down. _You_ just admitted to needing _help_.” 

Bruce scowled. “Are you done?”

Dick smirked. “Maybe.” Bruce glared, and Dick waved a hand. “Continue.”

“I’m going to see if I can find Talia. She sent a letter along with Damian, explaining that she was going to ground to hide from her father. When I find her, I’ll offer her shelter here, in return for helping us acclimatise Damian.” He frowned. “I think he misses her.”

Dick thought of the way Damian tensed up and got snappish whenever his mother was brought up. “He’s definitely feeling _something_ about her,” he agreed, though he thought privately that Damian was a little more mad than he was sad. 

“I don’t know how long I’ll be away, but it won’t be for too long, I promise. If we’re getting to the two week point and I haven’t found her, I’ll cut my losses. But I have to try.”

Dick sighed. “Fine. I’ll watch them.” Already, he was running through all the damage control he’d have to do in the back of his mind. 

“Thanks, Dick,” Bruce said. “I promise you, I won’t be long, okay? I’ll be back before you know it.”

* * *

Dick is relieved when both Tim and Damian show up to dinner that night. He’d been worried that one of them would have taken the opportunity of a quiet afternoon to run away or just lock themselves in their rooms. They sit at opposite ends of the table from each other, and refuse to look at each other. Steph sits next to Tim and spends the entire meal alternating between glaring at Dick and at Damian. Harper sits on Steph’s other side, occasionally reaching over to poke her or whisper something in her ear that causes her to knock her glaring down by about 5%. Duke and Cullen are sitting together on the other side of the table next to Damian, their chairs drawn close together as they whisper amongst themselves. Dick takes his usual seat, at what would normally be Bruce’s right-hand side at the head of the table, Jason’s seat sitting empty opposite him as usual. Alfred doesn’t join them, and his usual seat, opposite Bruce’s, remains empty as well.

It’s tense, and uncomfortable, and Dick is almost wishing something _would_ go wrong just so he doesn’t have to deal with the suffocating tension anymore, when Alfred enters the room, face slightly pinched, which is how Dick knows that whatever’s going on, it’s got something to do with the other side of the leylines.

“Sir,” he says, addressing Dick, “There’s a… bear here to see you.”

“...A bear,” Dick echoes.

“Yes, sir.”

Steph shoots to her feet immediately. “Maybe it’s here about Cass!” she says, and rushes to the door. 

There’s a beat, and then the entire family is scrambling to their feet and following Alfred to the kitchen door, where, sure enough, there’s a bear waiting for them.

It looks like a grizzly, large and looming, not at all like Cass’ compact black bear form, but its fur is pure black, with a few glimpses of aged silver. It stands in the doorway, regarding them all with an unintelligible look.

Dick takes a breath and addresses the bear, “You’re here to see me?”

The bear moves its head in a shaky nodding motion. As often as he’s seen Cass do it, Dick still finds it extremely strange to see animals acting with such human body language.

“If you will give me one of the children,” the bear begins, its voice deep and gruff, speaking with a deliberate slowness, a pained, rasping edge to the words, “then good fortune shall befall this family, and what was lost will be found…” 

Dick stares, incredulous. “What? That’s not– No. Absolutely not.”

“Dick–” Duke starts, but Dick shoots him a glare that shuts him up. 

“I’m not sending one of you away with some bear to who-knows-where, to do who-knows-what, for who-knows-how-long!”

The bear raises its head to look Dick in the eyes, and Dick feels a wave of dread at what he sees there: _desperation_. Pain, pleading. He looks away sharply. 

“I think you ought to go,” he tells the bear. The bear lowers its head again, shoulders hunching, and it almost looks sad. Dick tries very hard not to feel guilty about denying the bear a chance to _steal one of his siblings_. 

“Do not decide now,” the bear rasps. “Seven days. I will return. Answer then.”

And then it lumbers away, leaving them standing alone in the kitchen, staring out of the open door. Dick rubs his hand over his face. _Christ._ What on _earth_ was _that_ about? 

He glances back at his siblings. Steph stares after the bear, frowning, while Harper has her hand on Cullen’s shoulder, gripping him hard enough that her knuckles are white. Duke watches Dick carefully, while Damian hovers at the back of the crowd, arms crossed as he leans in the doorway. Dick can’t parse his expression. And Tim– 

Tim is shaking a little, a resolute look on his face, fists clenched. He takes a breath and meets Dick’s eyes.

“I’ll do it,” he says. “I’ll go with the bear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this fic, I've got the kids' ages figured out like this:  
> Dick - 25  
> Cass - 19  
> Jason - 18  
> Steph - 17  
> Tim - 16  
> Harper - 15  
> Duke - 14  
> Cullen - 13  
> Damian - 10  
> It's not super relevant, but age comes up several times in this chapter, so I thought I'd mention it!
> 
> And that's it for this Posting Day introduction! I'll see you in a week for chapter two.


	3. II. The Hermit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Hermit**  
>  Upright Meanings: introspection, being alone  
> Reversed Meanings: isolation, loneliness, withdrawal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at a whopping 12k, this is the longest chapter (so far) in this fic, and also the moment where i realised this was spiralling massively out of my control. 
> 
> shoutout again to my betas, especially vic, whose comments made me laugh aloud while editing!
> 
> there are two very brief references to child predators in this chapter, though no actual child predators show up in this story. also warnings for suicidal ideation, dissociation, and other signs of declining mental health. stay safe!

Tim hadn’t thought that an already silent room could become even  _ more _ silent, but the kitchen does, as all of his siblings turn to stare at him incredulously. Dick’s face is thunderous.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he tells Tim. Tim raises his chin, glares.

“I’m going,” he says. “You can’t stop me.”

“Tim, maybe you should think about this,” Duke says, but Tim brushes him off.

“I have thought about it. It’s the best option.”

“How?” Dick asks. “Tim, how could losing you  _ possibly _ be the best option?”

Tim meets his gaze, unflinching. “You heard what the bear said.  _ What was lost will be found _ . If I go, Bruce will come back.”

Pain flashes across Dick’s expression, followed by a deep sympathy that makes Tim’s skin crawl. “Tim, Bruce is  _ dead _ . The bear can’t bring him back.”

“You don’t know that,” Tim shoots back. “You’re telling me, out of all the magic that exists out there, there’s nothing that could bring him back?”

“Yes!” Dick snaps. “That’s the whole reason we’re all  _ here _ , Tim.” 

Tim tries not to flinch at the reminder that he’s not like his siblings. That, unlike them, he didn’t grow up beyond the leylines where magic was as natural as it was foreign to him. That he alone has never suffered anything supernatural. 

_ Well, maybe it’s time for that to change.  _

“That’s not the reason I’m here,” he says. “Maybe this is.” 

He stalks out of the room before any of them can stop him.

* * *

Steph enters without knocking and sits down on the end of Tim’s bed. Tim looks up from his laptop and raises an eyebrow at her. 

“What if I were naked?” he asks her. 

She scoffs. “You weren’t.”

Well, can’t argue with that. Tim pushes his laptop to the side. “What do you want?”

“I was going to volunteer,” Steph says, and Tim stares.

“To go with the bear?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Tim, to go with the bear. What else would I be volunteering for?” She pokes his forehead, and he bats her hand away. “I swear, aren’t you meant to be the smart one or something?”

Tim grumbles under his breath, then says, “Well, I volunteered. So I’m going.”

“I think you should hear me out.”

“Steph–”

“No, hey, listen. I should go. First of all, I’m older than you–”

“What does that have to do with–”

“Shh! I’m talking. I’m older than you, which means that I should be responsible and all that, you know? And… I know you think this’ll bring Bruce back, but I’m really not sure. I think it’ll bring  _ Cass _ back, and since she’s kind of my best friend, I should be the one to go.”

“And if Cass comes back and finds you gone because of her, she’ll just be happy with that?”   
“And you think  _ Bruce _ would be happy if he came back and found you gone?”

“Bruce has lots of kids. Cass only has one best friend.”

Steph’s expression softens a little. “Yeah, he has lots of kids, but he only has one Tim.”

Tim shrugs. “But– if it’s nothing? If it doesn’t work, and one of us goes, and nothing changes? I don’t… I don’t think I can stay here, Steph.”

“Is this about Damian?”

He sighs. “Yeah, partially, I just– I don’t know, Steph. Everything’s been awful, and I just… I need to get out of here. I need to clear my head.”

Steph purses her lips. “That’s what Cass said. In her note. That she needed to clear her head.”

Tim’s stomach churns. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching out to place a comforting hand on her knee, “she’ll come back.”

“You don’t  _ know _ that.” 

“I do,” Tim says. “You really think she’d leave you behind for good? After everything you’ve been through together?” 

She shrugs. “I mean, no, but– what if something happens? What if she gets hurt? What if…” 

“She’s  _ Cass _ .” 

“And Bruce was  _ Bruce _ . Anyone can die, Tim.”

Tim bites his lip. “She’ll come back,” he tells Steph. “Good fortune. The lost returned. Remember?”

“So you agree that I should go?”

Tim shakes his head. “I’m going, Steph. You can’t stop me.”

She glares, but he can tell her heart isn’t in it. “You can’t stop  _ me _ , either.” She pauses, humming thoughtfully. “Hey, do you think the bear’ll take both of us?”

“It did specify  _ one  _ of the children.”

“Ugh. Stupid wording. I really hate magic sometimes, you know.” 

“That’s part of why I want to go,” Tim says, and she glances at him quizzically. 

“Huh?” 

“Everyone else is from the other side. You’ve all had brushes with magic, you’ve all had your lives uprooted by it… It’s not fair that you should go through that again. Maybe it’s my turn.”

Steph snorts. “ _ Bruce said it’s  _ my _ turn on the fairytale bullshit _ ,” she mocks. 

Tim scrunches up his face. “Was that supposed to be my voice? That was awful.”

“ _ That was awful _ ,” Steph mimics. Tim throws a pillow at her, and she dodges, laughing. “Y’know, Damian’s pretty good at impressions.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Dick went off on him a couple weeks ago and as soon as he left the room. Damian started mocking him in, like, a perfect mimicry of his voice.”

“What did you do?”

“Told him to knock it off or I’d knock  _ him _ off. I don’t think he was too intimidated though; I was trying too hard not to laugh.”

Tim tries to smile, but it fades too soon. “Everyone else,” he says, “has all these little moments with Damian where he apparently acts like some kind of normal kid. But whenever he’s around me…” He trails off, gestures to his cast, and then to the spot on his leg that is bandaged under his jeans. 

“Maybe it’s your face,” Steph says.

“My… face?”

“Yeah. You have a face that incites violence. Like the first time I saw you.” 

Tim rolls his eyes. “Steph, be serious!”

“I  _ am _ being serious! Do you know how many times I’ve greeted someone with a rock to the face?  _ Once _ . There’s just something about you; people look at you and become filled with the primal urge to deck you.”

Tim shakes his head, biting back a laugh as he kicks at her with his good leg. 

She yelps, pushing him away. “Ew! Feet!” 

“Sorry, Steph, it’s just, you know, your face. It’s really filling me with  _ primal urges _ –” 

She grabs the pillow he’d thrown at her earlier and uses it to bat at his foot until he pulls it back, red-faced and laughing. “You’re the worst,” she tells him.

“Aw, Steph, that’s sweet of you, giving me your only title!”

She chucks the pillow straight at his face, but it’s worth it because he’s laughing,  _ really _ laughing, for the first time in weeks, and it feels so, so good.

* * *

“You’re an idiot,” Harper says. Tim bites back a groan, looking up to see her in the doorway of the den, where he’s attempting to nap (and failing quite miserably).

“You too?”

“I imagine you’re going to get an earful from all of us. ‘Cause you, Tim Drake-Wayne, are a dumbass.” 

Tim sighs, rolling his eyes. “Go on, then,” he says, “Lay it on me.”

“First of all, you have no idea what that bear wants. You’re basically willing to run off with a total stranger for the sake of a really vague promise. I am  _ surprised _ you didn’t take candy from white vans as a kid.”

“You’re from the other side.”

“So?”

“You didn’t  _ have _ to deal with guys in vans giving out candy.”

“Maybe not, but  _ you _ did. And we’re talking about you now, remember? So, yeah, agreeing to go with the bear? Stupid. What was even stupider was  _ telling _ Dick you were going. Now he’s gonna try his hardest to stop you, and we’re all incredibly stubborn, so the two of you are  _ definitely _ going to fight about it, and then either you’re going to stay and both of you are gonna be pissy at each other, or you’re going to leave and he’s going to mope about it, and either way it’s gonna  _ suck _ .” 

Tim blinks, attempting to process that. “Uh… sorry?”

“You better be,” Harper says. “You should have just kept it to yourself and disappeared with a note, like Cass did. This is why Cass is the superior sibling.”

“I thought you said I shouldn’t go at all.”

“You shouldn’t! But if you were gonna, you shouldn’t have  _ told _ everyone.”

“Right.”

“So, are you still planning on going?” 

Tim hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

“Dude. Refer to point one. You have no idea what that bear wants with you. What if it does something awful? What if it  _ eats _ you? It’s probably gonna eat you. From experience, I can say that being kidnapped and almost eaten is terrible.”

Tim shrugs. “Would it be that bad?”

“...Uh, hello,  _ yes? _ Jeez, it almost sounds like you don’t care what happens to you.” Tim doesn’t meet her eyes. Harper swears. “You don’t, do you? Fuck, Tim. You should talk to someone about that. A friend. One of your many,  _ many _ siblings. Go to therapy! Jesus. Don’t just run off with some weirdo bear.” 

Tim cracks a small smile at that. “I just… want things to be better. And I don’t know how to make them better. If what this bear is promising is real, then… I have to  _ try _ , Har. And if it  _ is _ just some trick, and I get eaten? …I dunno. At least then I won’t have to deal with my whole life falling apart around me.”

Harper’s face crumples a little bit, and she strides forward into the room, stopping short before him and pulling him into a crushing hug. “You’re an  _ idiot _ ,” she tells him fiercely, her voice thick. “But you’re  _ our _ idiot. So you  _ better _ come out of this alive, or else I’m hunting down your soul and decking you.”

Tim smiles, soft and sad, and hugs her back. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

* * *

Three days before he’s meant to leave, Alfred takes him to Leslie’s clinic to have his cast removed. 

The drive there is silent, save for the classical music playing quietly on the radio. The car’s been tuned to the classical station for as long as Tim can remember; Alfred claims that there’s too much tension in this family, and classical music in the car is meant to be a calming influence. Much like his calming teas and go-do-some-manual-labour-and-clear-your-head garden, Tim doesn’t think it works all too well, but it’s nice to know he’s trying.

Mostly, Tim feels awkward, sat in the backseat. He knows Alfred doesn’t approve of his plans, but the old butler hasn’t brought it up. Tim  _ knows _ an admonishment is coming, but he doesn’t know when, and it leaves him antsy. He spends the drive running a finger up and down his cast, looking at where his siblings have scrawled their messages on the plaster. 

Dick’s written a simple,  _ Get well soon! -D :) _ , while the rest of his siblings have added a variety of quips, insults, and doodles. Cass has drawn a bear with a bandage wrapped around its leg. Cullen has doodled a pride flag in one corner, and written a short get well message in binary code. Steph’s written in purple, glittery marker,  _ “don’t believe what he tells you: he lost a fight to a duck.” _ He smiles, looping his finger around it several times, but that smile soon fades as his finger drifts to a message in Bruce’s neat handwriting:  _ “stay strong.” _ He bites his lip and leans back against the headrest.

The cast is coming off today, along with all those well-wishes, messages from a time when things weren’t quite as awful as they are now. He leans his head against the cool window and wonders just how they got here. Has it really been less than two weeks since they lost Bruce? It feels like an age.

They pull up outside the clinic, and Tim drags himself out of the car. He and Alfred check in with the receptionist and take a seat in the waiting room. Tim picks up some magazine placed on an end table and flicks through it without really seeing. 

“Tim Drake?” a familiar voice calls, and Tim gets to his feet. Alfred glances up at him.

“Do you want me to accompany you, Master Tim?” he asks. 

Tim shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay,” he says, and then scurries up towards where Leslie’s waiting for him. He’s ashamed at the wave of relief that washes over him as soon as he’s out of Alfred’s presence.

Leslie leads him into an exam room and gestures for him to sit on the table. Tim hops up, swinging his legs as he shuffles to get comfortable.

“So, I take it there’s been no problems with your wrist?” Leslie asks. 

Tim shakes his head. “No, it got a little jostled when I got into a fight with Damian the other day, but it barely even hurt.”

Leslie purses her lips. “Has he attacked you since?” she asks, plugging in the cast removal saw. 

“The other day. Alfred patched it up for me.”   
Leslie purses her lips. “I don’t like you being in a house where you’re in danger of real physical harm. If it were an older sibling and not a younger one doing this to you, I would have been in contact with CPS already.”

Tim opens his mouth to reply, but at that point Leslie turns the saw on and gets to work making the incisions on his cast. He sits and waits quietly as she turns the saw off and pries the plaster from his arm before taking scissors and cutting through the padding underneath. She runs her hand over his wrist and then instructs him in a number of stretches and movements before giving a satisfied nod.

“You’re good to go,” she says. “I need to talk with Alfred before the two of you leave, but as long as you’re not doing anything crazy with that arm, you shouldn’t need to see me about it again.” Tim nods, biting his lip. Leslie frowns. “Did something happen?”

Tim sighs, playing with the hem of his shirt, and then tells her about the bear’s offer and his plans. Leslie listens, face pinched, and runs her hand through greying hair as he trails off into silence.

“I’m not going to lie and say that I approve of your expeditions across the leylines,” she says after a moment, and Tim almost laughs. Leslie had been a friend of the Waynes– Bruce’s parents– since before Bruce was born and had been the family’s go-to for tending to wounds they acquired on the other side that they couldn’t patch up, sleep off, or solve with magic. Tim had heard more than his fair share of her pointed comments in Bruce’s direction over the years about the irresponsibility required to allow children into such dangerous situations. (What she  _ doesn’t _ understand is that in the other world, the things that they experience are normal; what she doesn’t understand is that all of his siblings experienced much worse in their years growing up beyond the leylines than they have adventuring with Bruce after coming to the manor. She’s from this world,  _ his _ world, the world of science and technology and logic, and she cannot fathom that the fairytale violence they face on the other side is not at all like the violence she sees every day in the streets of Gotham and the waiting room of her clinic.)

“Nor do I like the idea of you running off with a stranger,” Leslie continues.

“Nobody does,” Tim tells her. “I’m just sick of all the conversations I have to have, where people try to convince me not to. I’m  _ going _ . And I hate spending my last week at home tiptoeing around people and avoiding awkward conversations and arguments about it.”

“Have you considered changing your mind?” Leslie asks. Tim shoots her a glare, and she sighs. “It might be easier if you broach the conversation first. Don’t just wait around for someone to spring one on you. Get it all over and done with, so you don’t spend your last few days with your family walking on eggshells.”

It’s good advice. Tim has always been terrible at taking good advice, but he thinks about it throughout the rest of the visit and during most of the car ride back.

As they turn down the long drive towards the manor, he finally says, “Alfred? Can we talk?” 

“Of course, Master Tim,” Alfred says. “Shall I pull over?” Tim nods, and Alfred does so. He cranes his neck to look back at Tim. “Perhaps you should come sit in the front seat.”

Tim circles around the car and gets into the front seat. He fidgets for a moment, unsure of what exactly he ought to say. 

“I know that you disapprove of my plans,” he manages, eventually. Alfred sniffs in a way that shows  _ exactly _ how much he disapproves. “And I just– I hate just waiting for you to yell at me. So. Um. You can yell at me now.”

He closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, waiting, but no yelling comes. Just Alfred’s voice, softer than he’d expected, “I am not going to yell at you, Master Tim.”

“Huh?” Tim blinks, looking at him. “You’re not?”

“No. In my experience, yelling tends to drive people away, and it would be antithetical to my goal here, which is to keep you with us.” He reaches out and places a hand on Tim’s knee. “The fact of the matter is that you are  _ quite _ dear to us, Master Tim, and they are only angry because they are scared of losing you so soon after losing Master Bruce. And I will not pretend to support you in your endeavour. But I will not condemn you for it, not when it is your family’s love and acceptance that you need most right now.”

Tim swallows around the lump in his throat and blinks back the tears budding in his eyes. “I, uh, thanks, Alfred.”

Alfred nods. “Anytime, Master Tim,” he says. “Are you ready to return to the manor, or would you prefer to stay here a little longer and compose yourself?”

“Let’s wait a minute,” Tim says.

As he tries his hardest to reign in his inevitable breakdown, he thanks every deity out there for Alfred Pennyworth.

* * *

After getting an earful from both Steph and Harper, he is not at all surprised when, the evening before the bear’s deadline, Duke and Cullen knock on his bedroom door.

“What’s up?” he asks, opening it. Cullen holds up a small canvas bag.

“We brought gifts!” 

“And also cookies,” Duke says, raising the plate he’s holding. Tim regards them with narrowed eyes.

“You may enter,” he allows and steps back to let them in. The three of them sprawl out across Tim’s bed and spend several moments silently munching on cookies. Tim swallows, and gestures to the bag, “So, what’ve you got?”

Duke and Cullen glance at each other a little nervously. 

“So, don’t be mad–” Duke starts.

“We went through a bunch of B’s old adventuring supplies,” Cullen says. 

“O-kay…?” 

“We picked out some stuff that we thought you might need if you’re going with the bear,” Duke says. “Are you going with the bear? Because Steph and Harper seem pretty convinced that you are, but if you’ve changed your mind, don’t let us pressure you–”

“I’m going,” Tim says, unsure of what to make of the warm, heavy feeling in his chest. “I… Thank you.” 

Cullen takes that as a cue and opens the bag, pouring the contents out onto the bed. 

“That’s that coat that just keeps you super warm, in case you end up somewhere cold. Got you some unbreakable rope– a classic– and that belt-staff you like, one of those throwing knives that always comes back, and a magic communicator, so you can call us if you need to.” 

Tim reaches out and takes the communicator from him, turning it over in his hand. He feels choked up. 

“We also got some snacks, like some trail-mix and granola bars and stuff, in case you get hungry or the bear doesn’t feed you or something.” Cullen flashes Tim a nervous, hopeful smile. “Is that okay?” 

“Yeah,” Tim says, his voice breaking, “It’s okay.” And then he’s crying, and Duke and Cullen are staring at him with wide, startled eyes. 

“We’re sorry!” Duke says, sounding slightly panicked. “We can put the stuff back if you don’t want it. It’s fine. We shouldn’t have–”   
“No,” Tim says, shaking his head. “I want it. I– thank you guys, seriously.” 

“Are you okay, dude?” Duke asks, voice soft, and that just makes Tim sob harder. He rubs at his eyes as he hiccups, feeling pathetic. 

_ Stop crying! _ he tells himself fiercely, but he can’t, can’t, can’t.

“I don’t– I don’t– I don’t know why I’m c– crying,” he chokes. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” Cullen says, shifting to pull Tim into a half-hug, and Tim presses a hand against his mouth, vision blurring. “Sometimes you just gotta cry to get the emotions out. It’s okay.” 

He feels Duke reach out and place a comforting hand on his knee, and that just makes Tim cry harder because they’re being so  _ nice _ , and he can’t handle that. He  _ can’t _ . Not when he’s about to leave them. 

The sobs subside several minutes later, leaving him exhausted and drained and sniffling. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay, man,” Duke says, a little hesitant. “Things have been a bit of a mess lately.”

Tim snorts, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” He runs his hands over the soft fabric of the coat Cullen had given him. “I… thank you guys. Seriously. You’re not… You’re okay with me leaving?”

“Well, no,” Duke says, “But if we can’t stop you, we can at least try and help you.”

Tim wraps his arms around both of them, pulling them into his sides. “You guys are the best, you know that?” he says, squeezing them. “Seriously, I’m gonna miss you.”

“We’re gonna miss you too, Tim,” Cullen says quietly. “Do you really have to go?”

“If there’s even a chance that this could work… Could bring Cass back, could bring  _ Bruce _ back? I have to. I have to  _ try _ .” 

Cullen sniffles, burying his face in Tim’s shirt. Duke tightens his grip on Tim. Tim holds his brothers and wonders if this is the last night he’ll ever hold them like this– if they’re all right, and he’s never coming back from this.

But then he thinks of the tension and grief that papers the walls of the manor these days, thinks of Bruce’s ashes in an urn in the study, thinks of Cass out there all alone, and knows that he  _ has _ to do this. He  _ has _ to save his family, even if that means losing them for good.

* * *

“Tim,” Dick says, and Tim freezes in the middle of packing his bag to leave. He’s spent his week avoiding Dick in hope that they wouldn’t have to have this conversation, but it looks like that won’t be happening. He sighs.

“Dick.”

“You’re not going.”

“Dick–”

“No! You’re not. I won’t let you.”

“You can’t make me stay!”

“Watch me.”

“I’m trying to help, Dick, and this is the only way I  _ can _ help right now.” 

“This isn’t  _ helping _ , Tim! This is  _ reckless _ .”

Tim scowls. “We literally get offered a magical solution to our problems, and you don’t want to take it?”

“Magic isn’t something to just play around with! It’s almost  _ certainly _ a trick. Tim, I know you’re hurt, and you’re grieving, and you want Bruce back, but… He’s dead. He’s dead, and he’s not coming back, and no amount of magic that will change that.”

Tim feels like he’s been struck. He blinks, trying to clear the sudden rush of tears from his eyes, anger boiling in his chest. “You don’t  _ know _ that.”

“I do.” Dick steps forward, places a gentle hand on Tim’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Tim. Things are hard right now, but they’ll get better.  _ Without _ magical intervention.” 

Tim jerks away from him, face flushed. “How are they going to get  _ better _ , Dick? Bruce is dead. Cass is gone. I’m going to be stuck sharing a house with someone who’s literally  _ out to murder me _ for the next two years! Everything is so big and overwhelming and I just– I want to  _ do _ something. I want to fix this.  _ Let me fix this _ .” 

“I’m not letting you throw your life away on a false promise, Tim.”

“Why not? It’s all my life’s good for!” Tim snaps and then stops, eyes widening as he realises what he’s said. “I’m not… I didn’t…”

Dick is staring at him, horrified. “Tim…”

Tim can’t handle this. “Get out,” he snarls. 

Dick blinks. “What?”

“Get  _ out! _ ” Tim stumbles to his feet, shoving Dick back towards the door. “Leave me alone!” 

He pushes Dick back out into the hall and then slams and locks the door behind him. There’s a moment of stunned silence in which all he can hear is his own ragged breathing, and then there’s banging on the door.

“Tim? Tim! Just let me in! Let’s talk, okay. We can figure this out!”

Tim doesn’t let him in. Tim walks over to his bed, crawls under the covers, and tries very, very hard not to cry.

* * *

Tim sits on the kitchen steps, watching the sun set, a packed bag at his side. He’d said his goodbyes to almost everyone earlier in the day because he’s pretty sure that if he has to face any of his younger siblings right now, he’ll break down crying and won’t be able to leave.

He hears footsteps behind him and looks up to see Alfred.

“I don’t suppose you can be persuaded to abandon your current course of action?” he asks, voice sadder than Tim’s ever heard it. 

He tries very hard not to wince as he shakes his head.“I have to do this, Alfred.”

Alfred sighs and then hands him a paper bag. “Then you may as well take this. For the road.”

Curiously, Tim reaches out and takes it, opening the bag and peeking inside. There’s some sandwiches, as well as a tub of fruit salad and a couple of Alfred’s cookies, alongside a bottle of water. “I… Thank you, Alfred.”

“Don’t think anything of it, lad,” Alfred says, but Tim  _ does _ , and he gets to his feet to pull Alfred into a hug. 

“I’m sorry, Alfie,” he says. “Things are gonna get better. I  _ promise _ .” 

Alfred sighs. Hugs him back. “I do hope you’re right, Master Tim, or else this family will have lost yet another loved one far too soon.”

Eventually, Tim pulls himself away from Alfred, and the old butler leaves the room. Shortly after, the kitchen door bangs open, and Steph enters the room. She crosses her arms and glares at him defiantly.

“No way I can convince you to let me go instead?” she asks. 

Tim shakes his head. “Not a chance,” he says. “I already said my goodbyes to everyone. Do you know how awkward it’d be if I stayed after all that?”   
Steph snorts. She crosses the room quickly, and pulls him into a hug. “Stay alive, you hear me? Even if, for whatever reason, you can’t come home, don’t give up.”

Tim nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I won’t,” he tells her softly. “I’m gonna be okay, Steph. We’re  _ all _ gonna be okay.” 

“Yeah, well, you better.” She pulls away. “I’m gonna miss you, Tim.”

“I’m gonna miss you too. Look after them for me, won’t you, while I’m gone?”

“Of course I will. Who do you think I  _ am? _ ” Her smile is watery and doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Try and come back though, if you can. We love you, Tim, and we need you, even if you’re dense and don’t realise it.”

Tim opens his mouth to reply when he hears a soft growling sound from the door and glances over to see the bear standing in the doorway. He and Steph exchange a tense glance as the bear speaks, in that slow, halting, painful way, “Have you made your decision?”

Tim takes a deep breath, rallies his nerves, and gives a decisive nod. “Yes,” he says and is genuinely surprised when his voice doesn’t shake. “I’ll come with you.”

He thinks he sees a flash of– is that  _ gratitude? _ – on the bear’s face, and suddenly, he feels a lot less nervous. He’s not sure what it is about the situation, it’s just– Tim’s always felt at his best when he’s helping people. And this is helping his family, yes, but he gets the sense, now, looking at the bear, that this was helping  _ it _ , too. 

He pulls his backpack up onto his back, Alfed’s bag of food contained within it, and crosses to where the bear stands with confident strides. He can feel Steph watching him, and he tries not to pay it any mind as the bear reaches out and, with a sudden movement of its paw, scoops Tim up and places him on its back. He gasps in surprise, falling into long, soft fur, and takes a moment to right himself. 

Sitting astride a massive bear as if it were a horse is… a lot to take in. Tim isn’t sure if he feels powerful or ridiculous. Once he’s gotten himself situated in a way that he doesn’t feel as if he’s about to fall off at any second, the bear rises up to its full height, and begins to move. Tim glances back at Steph, who’s staring up at him, her face a muddle of complicated emotions that Tim doesn’t have the capacity to parse right now.

“Tim,” she calls.

“Steph,” he calls back.

“Love you.”

Tim smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Love you too, Steph. Goodbye.”

He sees her mouth form the shape of the word, but he doesn’t hear her speak, as the bear turns and begins to walk away, away from the manor, towards where the leylines lie. Tim grips its fur tightly, blinks away tears, and tries very hard not to think of what he’s leaving behind.

“Wait!” A familiar yell echoes from behind him. “Wait! Tim!” 

The bear comes to a halt, and Tim twists, seeing Dick running across the lawn, eyes red and face flushed, gripping a small cardboard box in his hands. “Dick?”

“Tim,” Dick gasps, breathless. “I’m sorry, I wanted to say goodbye, to apologise for yesterday, I–”

“Dick, it’s okay,” Tim says, voice soft. “I’m sorry about yesterday, too. I… I’m glad you came.”

Dick swallows, blinking back tears. “You’re sure I can’t get you to stay?” he whispers. 

Tim can’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Dick.”

Dick sighs. “You know, there’s this concept back home. It’s got a couple names– the long journey, or the quest, or the search. It’s this idea that, at some point, every child has to leave their home and go on a journey to find who they truly are, where they truly belong. When it comes, you don’t always get a choice. Sometimes, something pushes you away from where you were. Sometimes, there’s something pulling you to somewhere new. But when you hear that call, you can’t deny it. You  _ have _ to go.” He smiles up at Tim. “Maybe this is  _ your _ quest.” He holds out the box he’s holding to Tim. “And with that in mind, I have this for you.”

Tim reaches out and takes it hesitantly, sliding it open to peek inside. “It’s… a cake?” Dick nods.

“It’s an old tradition. A guardian gives a child a choice: take a big cake with my curse, or a small cake with my blessing. I didn’t exactly have time to make two cakes or really give you much of a choice, but… It’s a small cake. Take it. Take my blessing.”

And just like that, Tim is choking back tears again. “I…”

“Take it and come back to us alive,” Dick tells him, and Tim nods, clutching the box tightly. 

“I will,” he promises. “Look after them, Dick.”

“Of course,” Dick says. “We love you, Tim. So much. Remember that. Wherever you end up, know that we’re thinking of you, and we miss you, and we love you.”

Tim reaches up and wipes away the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “I love you all too,” he whispers. “I’ll miss you all, too.” 

He leans down, ignoring how uncomfortable it is, and wraps his arms around Dick’s neck. Dick reaches up and hugs back, planting a soft kiss into Tim’s hair. 

“Bye, Tim.”

“Goodbye.”

And then Tim is pulling back, and Dick is stepping away, and the bear is walking, then running, and Tim  _ thinks _ they’ve passed through the leyline portal, but he can’t tell for sure, because all he can see through tear-filled eyes is a colourful blur.

* * *

Several hours later, stiff and sore after hours of riding, the bear comes to a stop, and Tim is allowed to scramble off its back and down onto the floor. His legs feel like jelly, and his back aches, and he spends several minutes just stretching and attempting to shake the travelling lethargy from his body.

The sky is grey with pre-dawn light, and there’s a fast, crystal-clear stream flowing not far away. The bank is littered with rocks and boulders, and Tim sits down on one of them as the bear makes its way over to the stream and stands on the bank, staring at the water. Tim watches it for a moment, but when it doesn’t move or attempt to speak to him, he instead turns to opening his pack and taking out the bag that Alfred had packed for him.

He wants to savour the meal– the last of Alfred’s cooking he’ll have for a while– but he worries that the bear will do something to interrupt him, and not finishing the food would be even worse than not being able to appreciate it. So he scarfs it down, watching the bear out of the corner of his eye.

The bear, for the most part, just stands by the stream, watching the water flow past. Just as Tim is about to speak up and ask what it’s doing, its paw flashes out lightning-quick, and the next thing he knows, there’s a fish flopping around on the bank, quickly stilled by a paw to the neck. The bear lowers its head and begins to eat.

Tim turns his gaze away, letting the animal have some privacy to eat as he licks fruit juice from his fingers and takes a swig from the water bottle. He turns the box of cake over in his hands, considering it, and then places it back in his pack without opening it. He definitely wants to eat it before it goes stale, but he’s hesitant. He knows, objectively, that eating the cake won’t destroy Dick’s blessing, but a small, paranoid part of his brain tells him to cling on to the physical manifestation of his brother’s words for as long as he can.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon, casting the sky with gold and pink, when the bear turns back to him and makes an expectant snorting noise. Tim gets to his feet, stretching his legs again as he walks over to the bear, which has lowered itself for Tim to mount. He does so with no small amount of difficulty, huffing and grumbling as he attempts to get a grip on the bear’s smooth fur and then shifting around until he finds a comfortable position. He eventually ends up lying almost face-down on the bear’s back, gripping on tightly to its fur to hold himself in place.

The bear, seemingly frustrated with having stayed in one place for too long, rises to its full height and lopes off into the sunrise.

* * *

The sun is high in the sky the next time the bear stops, this time at the foot of a large mountain. Wherever they are, it’s much colder than Bristol, with most of the landscape obscured by soft white snow, and Tim is incredibly grateful that Duke and Cullen had thought to give him the coat. Tim waits a few moments for the bear to stoop for him to dismount, but it doesn’t, instead letting out a long, low growling noise.

The growl echoes eerily in the chill air and then seems to grow louder, deeper, more gravelly even though Tim can tell that the bear is no longer making any sound. It takes him a moment longer to realise that the sound isn’t an echo, but instead coming from before them, as the stone wall of the mountainside begins to crack and slide open like a pair of elevator doors. 

The bear begins to move again, walking towards the narrow, just-large-enough hole in the rock, and all of a sudden, Tim starts to feel afraid again. Harper’s voice echoes in his mind as they enter into a dimly lit, cavernous hall:  _ You have no idea what that bear wants with you. What if it does something awful?  _

The bear stoops to let Tim slide off of its back, and he does so, scrambling back and away from the bear as soon as his feet are on the floor. He stares at the bear, and the bear just looks back. The silence weighs down, heavier than all the tons of rock above them.

“Um,” Tim says, “are you going to eat me?”

The bear makes a huffing noise that, if Tim has to hazard a guess, lies somewhere between annoyed and amused, and begins to walk off. Tim stands still for a second, watching it go, and then jogs to catch up, following a few feet behind as the bear leads him through a long and convoluted series of halls. He tries to keep track of where he’s going, but the hallways seem to loop and twist around him, and before long, he’s hopelessly lost, which absolutely does not help his nerves. 

He wonders if he should have maybe tried crumbling up Dick’s cake to leave a trail back to the entrance. It would be a waste of the cake, but at least he’d be able to go back over the path and attempt to memorise it later. 

Finally, the bear halts before a door and turns to look at him. Hesitantly, Tim steps forward and places his hand on the handle. The bear doesn’t react negatively, continuing to watch him expectantly, so Tim pushes the door open.

It’s… a bedroom. Tall ceilings, no windows, the walls lined with patterned wallpaper, a set of old, wooden drawers and a matching dresser, and there, in the centre of the room, filling most of the space, is a large, four-poster king bed with heavy velvet curtains tied to each post. The room, like the rest of this place– whatever it is– is lit by firelight emanating from the sconces on each wall. 

The bear makes a snuffling noise, drawing Tim’s attention, and makes a gesture towards the room with its head. 

“This is mine?” Tim asks, hesitant. The bear dips its head and then gestures towards the room again. Taking the cue, Tim walks in, turning around to take it in. He pulls his pack from his back and drops it onto the bed, running his hand over the sheets as he does so. Still uncertain, he turns back to the door, only to find that the bear had disappeared while his back was turned.

_ Great.  _ Tim glances around the room again, uncertain. He walks over to the dresser and opens it, surprised to find that there are clothes in there: a handful of freshly-laundered shirts and tunics, as well as breeches and pants in the next drawer down. Did the bear do laundry? It would be kind of hard, he imagines, with big, clunky paws instead of hands.

The image of a bear standing on its hind legs in the manor laundry room attempting to fold clothes comes to mind, and he smiles despite his discomfort, sliding the drawer closed. So, there’s probably at least one non-bear person in this place, whatever it is. That, or there’s some kind of laundry magic– he can’t figure out which one is more likely. He decides that if there is some kind of laundry magic, he should try and figure it out before going home, so he can pass it on to Alfred. God knows the butler needs all the help he can get.

He crosses to the wardrobe and opens it. Though there are several handfuls of coathangers on the rail, there’s only one item of clothing in there: a cloak. Curious, he pulls it out, and holds it up, looking at the way its black surface ripples and refracts the candlelight, shimmering like the aurora borealis in a dark winter sky.

He puts it back in the wardrobe and takes the opportunity to hang up his coat too. It’s much warmer inside the mountain than it was outside, and he’s beginning to sweat. Then, he walks back to the bed and starts to pull things out of his bag, figuring that if he’s going to be staying here, he may as well put his stuff away.

Clothing stashed, he goes back to the pile of trinkets on his bed and pulls out the communicator Cullen and Duke had given him.

The communicators are a combination of magic and technology that Bruce and Babs had worked on a couple of years back. Technology tended to go a bit haywire beyond the leylines, which meant that things like phones or even radios were unreliable methods of communication when on trips there. So, they’d designed the communicators: they work on both sides of the lines, and bridge the gap between them. They’re powered by magic, so there’s no need to worry about them running out of charge, and the framework is that of an old Nokia brick, so they’re practically indestructible as well.

Tim opens up the contacts list and finds the one labelled DUKE. He presses the button to make a call, and waits.

…And waits.

And waits.

And then the screen flashes up the words NO SIGNAL, and Tim just stares.

Of course it’s not working. Of  _ course _ . This is just his luck.

“Maybe the mountain’s blocking the signal,” he mutters to himself. Either that, or there’s some kind of magic preventing it from working. That, or it’s just plain broken.

Well, he can try and test one of those theories, at least. He takes the belt-staff and puts it on, and then tucks the throwing knife he’d been given into one of the weapons pouches he’s fitted the staff with over the years. He grabs one of his hoodies from the wardrobe and pulls it on; then, he scoops up the communicator and makes his way out of the room.

He attempts to memorise his path as he walks, leaving the corridor where his room is and out into the labyrinthine halls beyond. He keeps an eye on the slope of the ceiling, making turns that lead him towards lower, more slanted ceilings and what is hopefully the outside wall of the mountain. 

Eventually, he thinks he finds what he’s looking for. He keeps one hand on the wall as he walks, the communicator in one hand, watching its signal bar. He walks until he thinks he’s looped all the way back around to where he came from– nothing. Hm. Maybe he needs to go higher?

He sets about looking for some stairs, which takes him a lot longer. By the time he finds the spiral staircase in what must be the centre of the mountain, his exhaustion is beginning to catch up with him, and his stomach is grumbling uncomfortably. Still, he didn’t spend all that time wandering to give up now, and he’s so turned around by this point that even if he tries to come back another day, it’ll still take him hours to get here.

As he ascends, the stairs get more and more cramped as the stairwell gets thinner and thinner, until eventually they end at a small landing with a low, slanted ceiling, and Tim knows he’s reached the top of the mountain. There’s nothing here aside from a cushioned seat carved into the wall and a small, round window, no larger than his head. Still, his heart leaps with excitement at the sight of it, and he clambers onto the seat and fiddles with the slightly rusted catch on the window until he can push it open. Frigid air rushes into the room, but when he looks down at the communicator, there’s a single, flickering bar of signal.

_ Please let this be enough,  _ he thinks, dialling Duke’s frequency and flicking it onto speakerphone, holding the communicator as close to the window as he dares.

It rings and rings, and then there’s a crackle of static as someone picks up.

“–lo? Tim?”

Tim’s heart pounds. “Duke? Can you hear me?”

The static whines and bursts, and Tim catches only distorted glimpses of words. “–you, signal– there?”

“I’m here. I’m okay, Duke, for now at least. No idea what’s going on, but I’m going to try and figure it out.”

“–can’t– breaking up–”

“Duke?” Static spikes and echoes like a gunshot as the signal drops and the call ends. Tim stares at the communicator and mutters a curse, stuffing it into his pocket and sighing. He reaches up and closes the window, though it doesn’t do much to warm the now cold room and thinks about all the stairs he’s going to have to climb down.

Yeah, no, fuck that. He pulls his hoodie around him, pulling the hood up and tucking his hands into his sleeves, before sliding down in the window seat and settling in for a nap.

* * *

He wakes several hours later stiff and sore with a familiar, stuffy feeling in his head and throat, and groans. In hindsight, falling asleep in a room full of freezing cold mountain air hadn’t been the best idea. He takes a moment to just lie there, breathing in and out, looking out of the window at the brief glimpse of darkening grey sky, and then gets to his feet, joints cracking as he stretches.

By the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he’s exhausted and hungry and really all he wants is to go back to his room, eat some of the snacks he has packed, and sleep in a proper bed, but his attempts to find it leave him hopelessly lost. He finally gives up and slumps down against a wall in a hallway that’s identical to  _ every other hallway in this godforsaken place,  _ buries his face in his knees, and tries very hard not to cry.

Some time later, he becomes aware that he’s not alone, and looks up to see the bear watching him from several feet away. Tim is by no means an expert in reading bear body language or facial expression, but he thinks it looks almost concerned.

“Hi,” he croaks. 

The bear pads up to him and lowers its head towards Tim’s face. Tim stiffens, preparing himself for pain, but the bite he’s expecting never comes. The bear just rests its muzzle on his head, its soft, warm breaths ruffling his hair. Tim sits there, blinking in dazed confusion.

“Um,” he says. “Did you want something?”

The bear makes a small huffing noise, pulling back a little and nosing Tim’s cheek before stepping back and gesturing with its head down the hall. Recognising the bear’s  _ follow me _ gesture, Tim gets to his feet and does so, walking alongside the bear as it leads him into a hallway he’s never been in before. He can tell that this one is new because, unlike every other hall in this place, it has large tapestries hanging on the walls, covering the ornate wallpaper. There are three large sets of double doors here: two on either side of the hall and one at the end. The bear stops at the doors on the left and gives Tim an expectant look. Picking up the cue, Tim opens the door and walks into a cavernous dining room. It’s not very wide, but it is long, and most of its length is filled with the longest dining table Tim has ever seen. A fire is burning in a hearth on one wall, and there are more tapestries and portraits on the walls. Tim makes a mental note to look at them later, because right now, all he can pay attention to is the food– heaping platters full of it, all laid out in the centre of the table. Someone had set a single place with a full array of dishware and cutlery, and Tim slides into the chair in front of it, ogling the veritable feast in front of him.

There are platters of sliced meats: sticky glazed gammon with a scent so distinctly Christmas; roast chicken, crispy with the skin and seasoned with rosemary; medium-rare steak, slightly pink and dripping; all of them sitting on a bed of roasted root vegetables, honey-glazed parsnips and buttered carrots and thyme-tainted beets. There’s a bowl of crispy roast potatoes sat beside a plate of sliced french bread, still warm from the oven, arranged in a circle around a knob of butter and a bowl of dipping oil. A large pot of stew has been left uncovered, chunks of potato and beef bobbing in the broth alongside several large, doughy dumplings. A bowl of salad sits in the centre of the table, green-and-purple leaves creating a bed for bright red tomatoes and yellow peppers and purple onions, a splash of colour in the centre of a feast of muted browns and golds. At one side of the table, there are several large glass bottles, filled with various drinks that Tim can’t quite identify, amber and purple and white.

Tim ladles himself some of the stew, pours himself a glass of the purple drink, and, after a moment’s hesitation, a small sample of everything else on offer. 

It’s  _ good _ . The stew isn’t anything special, but it reminds him of the stew one of his old nannies had cooked often, back when he was still young enough that he had a nanny to cook for him. The gammon doesn’t just smell like Christmas, it tastes like it too, spiced with cloves and ginger and aniseed. He eats all of the bread without even meaning to; it melts in his mouth, warm and soft and buttery. The drink, it turns out, is some kind of non-alcoholic mulled wine– it tastes like a scented candle, but in a  _ good _ way, and he can’t help himself from pouring glass after glass.

It’s not Alfred’s cooking, but it leaves him feeling stuffed and warm and sleepy. He stands, intending to make his way to his room, and then realises he doesn’t know where he’s going. The bear, which had lain down in front of the fire sometime after Tim had taken his own seat, lifts its head and looks at him.

“Do you think you could help me find my room?” Tim asks it. The bear huffs and gets to its feet, walking towards the door. Tim takes that as a yes and scrambles after it.

“So,” Tim asks, as they make their way through the halls, “Did you, uh, bring me here for a reason? Is there something I’m meant to do? Or is something going to happen to me?” The bear snarls softly, and Tim snaps his mouth shut. Okay, maybe asking questions isn’t a good idea.

They arrive at his room and Tim hesitates, half tempted to pat the bear in thanks, but would that be rude? This  _ is _ a sapient bear. He knows Cass doesn’t mind pets when she’s in  _ her _ bear form, but Cass is his sister, and this bear is, essentially, a stranger.

Eventually, he just mumbles, “Thank you,” and turns to enter his room. He’s caught off-guard when he hears the bear’s familiar halting speech from behind him.

“Stay. Live.” 

He blinks, turning back to the bear. “I… I’m here to live here?” he checks. The bear dips its head in what Tim has learned is a nod. “For how long?”

The bear looks pained as it replies, “A year.”

“Just a year? And then I can go home?” The bear nods again, grunting. Tim’s heart is pounding, and he can’t tell if it’s with dread or excitement, because– a year. It’s still far too long, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing, especially when several minutes ago he hadn’t known if he would ever be able to go home, or if he was going to be fattened up, killed, and eaten.

The bear turns around and lumbers away, and Tim watches it go, before entering his room and shutting the door behind him. He changes quickly into some sweatpants and an old t-shirt he’d stuck in the bottom of his bag, and crawls under the heavy covers of the bed, eyelids drooping.

Just as he’s drifting off to sleep, all the candles in the room flicker and go out at once. It’s probably some kind of magic, and he thinks if he were more awake, he’d be alarmed about this development, but as it is he just closes his eyes and sinks into unconsciousness.

* * *

He wakes, heart-pounding, in the dead of night and for a moment he thinks that he must have had a nightmare, though he can’t remember it. That’s when he realises that the door to his room just creaked open. He tenses, not opening his eyes, and listens as soft footsteps pad across the carpet towards the bed. He feels the mattress dip as someone sits down on it. 

His heart pounds, and he tries his best to feign sleep. Judging from the movement of the bed, whoever just sat down is large– not inhumanly so, but still much, much bigger than Tim. For a moment, he thinks that it’s the bear, stripped of all its heavy fur, but that’s so ridiculous that he shoves the motion away immediately. 

A hand reaches out and brushes the hair away from his forehead. His breath catches in his throat as he bites back a scream. Whoever this stranger is pulls their hand back, and sits there a moment longer. Tim can feel their gaze boring into his back. Then, they pull the covers up and slide under them, shuffling until they’re comfortably situated on the other side of the large bed.

Tim remembers Harper’s comments about white van men and bites back a hysterical, panicked laugh. He counts his breathing, trying very hard not to think. He feels the stranger roll over, and hears a heavy sigh.

He waits for them to reach over again, to touch his hair or  _ worse _ , but it never comes. Instead, the stranger’s breathing evens out until they’re snoring softly. Tim lies frozen in place for a long time, hyper-aware of his bedfellow, until his tiredness overwhelms him and he drifts off.

When he wakes the next morning, he is alone in bed once more.

* * *

He falls into a pattern. Upon emerging from his room in the morning, he’s greeted by the bear, who takes him to the dining hall for breakfast, and then he’s left to wander the mountain until the bear fetches him for supper. At first, he spends his time memorising the layout of the mountain, until he has a pretty decent idea of how to get around. In his exploring, he locates a number of rooms that catch his attention: a room decorated like a museum, displaying a number of instruments in glass display cases; an august ballroom, with a grand piano in one corner; a darkroom, fully stocked with photography equipment; a large, walk-in closet filled to the brim with ornate clothing, not unlike the cloak in his closet; and a vast library. 

Once he’s reasonably certain he can get around to most of the places he frequents, he spends most of his days flitting between those rooms. Sometimes he takes the camera and wanders around photographing various corners of the mountain, before returning to develop the photos, which he later takes to his bedroom and arranges on one wall. Sometimes he wanders through the library, looking for the few books there that are written in a language he understands, and then curls up by the library’s fireplace to read them. On days like that, the bear will sometimes come and join him– Tim had only started reading aloud to it on a whim, but the bear seemed to enjoy listening, and so it becomes a thing the two of them share. 

One day, Tim brings a camera with him to the library, and snaps a few photos of the bear during their reading sessions, eyes half-lidded and content as it lies sprawled out before the fire. They’re maybe not as artistic as some of the photos he’s taken of the mountain’s architecture, but they’re his favourites, and he keeps them on his bedside table.

He attempts to play the musical instruments in the cases, and the sound is so painfully bad that the bear shows up for all of thirty seconds before very purposefully leaving to show its disapproval. He wanders through the racks of clothing in the closet-room and takes things he likes back to his room. He cycles through his own clothing and the stuff he’s acquired in the mountain, and no matter what, the clothes he discards on the floor at the end of every day disappear at night and return freshly-laundered in his drawers about a week later. 

Tim still has no idea who does the laundry, or cooks the food, or keeps the place clean– all he knows is that it can’t be the bear. He doesn’t rule out the idea that it could be some kind of magic, but sometimes he’ll see a figure in the corner of his vision, moving fast out of his line of sight, and the idea that it’s some kind of servant is much more comforting than any of the other possibilities. He keeps trying to catch them, but whoever– or whatever– it is moves too fast for him to get more than a glimpse. 

So he reads. He plays instruments badly, and doesn’t really improve. He takes photos. He eats lavish breakfasts and dinners. He wanders the halls of the mountain, sometimes ascending the stairs to sit by the window at the peak and look out at the glimpse of sky beyond. He takes his communicator with him, but it never manages to catch a signal again. 

And every night, when he goes to bed, the candles in his room magically extinguish themselves, and a large stranger enters his room, climbs into bed on the opposite side, and is gone in the morning.

* * *

Time becomes liquid. Days bleed into one another, each one indistinguishable from the next. Tim loses track of time around the one-month mark– he has no idea how long he’s been here, or how long he’s got left. Routine turns into monotony. He goes through the motions, but his heart is no longer in anything he does.

Piece by piece, Tim begins to unravel.

* * *

He awakes to a nightmare. It takes him a moment to realise that the nightmare isn’t  _ his _ , but rather his bedfellow’s; he can feel the stranger thrashing on the other side of the bed, hear whimpers and moans. He lies there frozen, unsure of what he ought to do in this situation, and just as he’s made the decision to wake the stranger up, they jerk awake, sitting up in bed with a sharp scream that trails off into sobs. 

Tim pushes himself up so he’s sitting, and hesitates. It’s pitch-black in the room, but he knows there’s a box of matches in the bottom of his pack. He’d considered lighting them before to catch a glimpse of the stranger, but hadn’t wanted to alert that he was awake. 

“Hey,” Tim calls, making sure to keep his tone gentle, “It’s okay. It was just a nightmare, you’re safe now.”

The stranger gives no indication that they’ve heard him. He slips out of bed and stumbles blindly to where he keeps his pack atop the dresser, and rummages through it until he recognises the feeling of the matchbox against his feeling. He pulls it out, sliding it open and fumbling with a match. He attempts to strike it, but– nothing.

He tries again, and again. He discards the match and grabs another, only for the same result.  _ What the hell? Is there something wrong with the matches? _

The stranger is still crying. Tim bites back a curse and drops the matches, heading back to bed. “Hey,” he says, again, feeling helpless and awkward. He reaches out a hand and places it on the stranger’s shoulder, feels them stiffen under his touch. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The next thing Tim knows, he’s being cradled in large arms, pulled against a broad chest covered with a silken shirt, a chin pressed against his head and tears wetting his hair. He stiffens, breath coming a little faster, because other than that first night, the stranger hasn’t touched him, hasn’t even attempted to breach his personal space. His first instinct is to fight back, wriggle out of the hold he’s in, except the stranger’s sobs are beginning to calm but that doesn’t mean they’re any less heart wrenching to listen to. So he forces himself to relax, and lets the stranger hold him.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but the stranger’s embrace is warm, and he feels  _ safe _ in a way that he can’t explain. It’s just, he knows that whoever this person is, they don’t want to hurt him– that they’ll stop anyone who tries. 

He almost feels sad when he wakes up alone the next morning, and then immediately dismisses the notion, because why should he feel sad about the absence of someone who is– let him remind himself–  _ a total stranger that he knows nothing about _ . 

Then he remembers the matches, and leaps out of bed to where he dropped the matchbox on the floor. He picks up a match and strikes it against the side of the box, and, sure enough, it lights. He stares at the flame, feeling uneasy, before blowing it out and crushing the charred wood in his hand.

* * *

It’s too quiet in the mountain. Tim speaks to himself just to hear something. He gets into the habit of narrating his thoughts, which then turns into acting out conversations that he scripts in his head. He thinks of what Dick, or Steph or Duke or Harper, or any of the others, would say if they were here, and attempts to hold a conversation with his own imagination.

He knows it’s not exactly  _ healthy _ . But he’s so, so lonely, and the bear isn’t exactly a conversationalist. He needs to talk to someone, so this is his solution: picture someone he knows well, and speak to them as if they’re here.

He catches the bear watching him sometimes while he’s having one of these conversations, and the look on its face makes him quiet. He’s not sure what it is about it, and he can’t read the emotions there, but it’s enough to make his heart twinge uncomfortably and shame to heat his face. 

With all of that in mind, he supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised when the hallucinations start.

It begins one afternoon when he’s making his way to the library, after spending his morning up by the window. As he passes by the doors to the ballroom, he hears a faint tinkling sound, like someone playing the piano, and, curiously, he cracks open the door, expecting to find maybe one of the mysterious people that keep disappearing from his peripheral vision.

Instead, he sees Steph, face scrunched up in concentration, as she plays a familiar tune on the keys.

For a moment, he stands there, stunned, wondering just how she got here– did the bear go back for her? Why? Wasn’t Tim good enough for whatever deal they made?– when it hits him what’s happening. Then he just stands and watches her play, until the tune winds down to its conclusion. Steph stills, and Tim half expects her to vanish, when she looks up at him and smiles.

“Hey, Timbo,” she says. “It’s been a while.”

“Y-yeah,” he stammers. She runs her fingers along the keys, playing a short scale. 

“Remember when B and Dick tried to teach us to dance?”

Tim does; it had been shortly after Cass and Steph had come to the manor. Bruce had been hosting one of his high-society balls, and he’d wanted all of them to attend, so the three of them without any dancing experience– Tim, Cass, and Steph– had been given an impromptu lesson in the manor ballroom. In the end, Alfred had ended up the most effective teacher, demonstrating a waltz with Cass while Bruce and Dick tripped over each other’s feet and bickered. Tim and Steph had ended up dancing together, and before long, their sloppy waltz had turned into a freestyle mess that Alfred had tutted at. It had been fun, though.

And just like that, Steph– not-Steph– is in front of him, holding out her hands in a familiar position. The piano is playing a tune without a player, which he thinks is odd before he remembers that none of this is real. He reaches up and takes Steph’s hands, and the two of them twirl around the dancefloor, spinning and dipping and stepping on each other’s feet until they’re both a giggling mess, collapsed against each other in the centre of the room.

“I miss you,” Tim tells her, once he’s regained his breath. She smiles sadly at him and boops his nose.

“I know you do,” she says. “It’s okay, Tim. You’ll be home before you know it. Just one year, right?” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, feeling choked up suddenly. “I just– I miss you. All of you. It’s so  _ lonely _ here. At least when my parents left me alone as a kid, I could go to school or chat with people on forums or whatever. Here there’s just the bear, and I think it hurts it to talk. And I guess the other people I keep seeing, but they won’t come near me.” 

“Well, that’s why I’m here,” Steph tells him. “To keep you company.”

“Steph, you know that’s not a  _ good _ thing, right?” 

“Wow, okay. Rude. If you really don’t want me around, I suppose I can just leave–” 

“No!” Tim yelps. Steph startles as Tim grabs her hands. “Please don’t go.”

“You’re really messed up, huh?” she says, voice soft. She pulls him into a hug, and he lets his eyes close, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “It’s okay, Tim. I’ve got you. I’m not gonna leave you.”

Tim lets himself believe her.

* * *

“So,” Steph says, “Walk me through the evidence.”

They’re in a study not too far from Tim’s bedroom. Tim had found it during his initial wanderings, but hadn’t originally paid it too much mind. There are lots of study-like rooms in the mountain. The difference between this one and the others, however, is that this one has a large cork board on one wall, with plenty of drawing pins stored in a pot on the desk. Now, that corkboard is littered with notes, photographs, and string, as Tim attempts to piece together what he knows.

“Well, first of all, there are two mysteries I’m trying to solve here. The first is: ‘who are the mysterious servants that run the mountain?’”

“How are you sure that there are servants, and it’s not some kind of magic?”

“I’m  _ not _ entirely sure, but the evidence seems to be pointing in that direction. If this is magic, it would have to be an incredibly complex spell, and I’m pretty sure it’d have to be constantly maintained. The other bits of magic I’ve seen– the way to open the mountain, the one that turns out the lights– could be very easily programmed and left to regulate themselves. But a spell that keeps the entire mountain cleaned and tidied on a varied, rotating schedule? That’s a bit more complicated, and takes a lot more work and maintenance. Also, Occam’s Razor. Servants are a much more simple explanation than any kind of magic.

“Not to mention, I’ve seen people a couple of times, out of the corners of my eyes– not enough to get a clear grasp on what they look like, but enough that I can tell there’s more than one. If it is some kind of spell, that brings up the question of just who are these people, why are they here, and why are they avoiding me?” 

“They could be hallucinations,” Steph points out helpfully. Tim shakes his head.

“I don’t think so. I’ve been seeing them since my first couple of days here, and I don’t think I was in a bad enough state back then to be at that point.”

“Okay, so, there are some servants that staff the mountain, and they’re super stealthy and never let you properly see them.”

“Right. I want to figure out who they are. Talk to them, if I can. Maybe they can tell me a bit more about my situation than the bear can.”

“Seems fair. Maybe if you could find the kitchen, or laundry room, or wherever they spend their time, you could catch them?”

“Maybe, but I have no idea where those places could be.”

Steph hums thoughtfully, tapping a pen against her lips. “Well, the kitchen’s probably near the dining hall, if they’re going to transport the food while it’s still warm.”

“Right. But the only things in that wing are the dining room, the ballroom, and the library.”

Steph frowns. “That wing’s different from the rest of the palace.”

“How so?”

“I can’t place my finger on it. Something about the way it looks?”

Tim thinks about that for a moment. That wing is on the lowest floor of the mountain, and the ceilings there are a lot higher than the other floors, but other than that, it’s pretty much the same as the rest of the mountain: same stone floors, same wallpapered walls, same grand doorways. In fact, other than the tapestries, there’s not much there to set it apart– 

He stops. “The tapestries!” he gasps. “There must be a door behind one of them!”

Steph snaps her fingers. “Oh, of course!” she says. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a whole system of secret tunnels in the walls, with doors behind portraits or under rugs or whatever. It’d make sense, wouldn’t it, how you can never seem to catch the servants?”

“It makes a  _ lot _ of sense,” Tim agrees. “Hey, thanks, Steph. I don’t know if I’d have figured that out without you.”

Steph reacts with mock-surprise. “Tim Drake? Admitting he needed help?”

Tim glares at her. “You’re the worst.”

Steph sticks her tongue out. Then, “So, what about the other mystery we’re here to solve?”

“My mysterious nighttime visitor.”

“Ah, yes,” Steph says. “That’s  _ seriously _ creepy. And you have no idea who, or even what it is?”   
Tim shakes his head. “No, all the lights in my room magically go out beforehand, and with no windows anywhere but the peak, it’s impossible to see. I’ve tried to light a match after the fact to see by, but it never catches.”

“Maybe there’s some kind of magic preventing it,” Steph says, and Tim nods. 

“Maybe. I’ve been able to identify some things about my visitor– they’re large, both in the sense that they’re broad and heavy, but also in the sense that they’re tall. Definitely upwards of six feet. Humanoid, if not human. I  _ think _ they’re male, but I could be wrong.” 

“I think it’s the bear,” Steph says. “Like Cass, except opposite, where it’s a bear during the day and a person at night.” 

Tim nods. “I think that’s the most likely explanation,” he agrees. “I suppose it could be one of the servants, but from what I’ve glimpsed, none of them have the height or build. But that still leaves the question of who exactly the bear is, and why.” 

“I mean, this is the world that inspires fairytales. You have to start thinking with that sort of logic. It might be some kind of test of character, that will end with a reward. Maybe you have to solve some kind of condition to change things. Maybe you’re breaking a curse. Or maybe this is some beauty-and-the-beast story where you have to reform the bear-man into a good person.”   
Tim grimaces. “It could be any of those. It could be none of them. And I don’t really have any evidence any which way. Which means I’m stuck not knowing what to do, or if I should be doing any of it.”

“Well, there is one thing you can do,” Steph says, pointing towards the photos he’s just pinned up on the board. “Find wherever the servants hang out, and ask them.”   
Tim considers it for a moment, but she’s right: right now, it’s the only lead he’s got. He nods. 

Steph grins, taking his hand and leading him out of the room. “Come on, boy wonder,” she says, “Let’s go solve a mystery.” 


	4. III. Wheel of Fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Wheel of Fortune**  
>  Upright: good luck, turning points  
> Reversed: breaking cycles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is getting uploaded a little later in the day because i completely forgot that i update this fic on saturdays, whoops. this one's not been as rigorously edited because of that- if you spot any glaring errors, please let me know!

Two days after Tim leaves, Barbara arrives at the manor. Dick doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to see her, but she clearly doesn’t feel the same way.

“So you’re telling me,” she says, voice icy cold, “That in the past month, not only has Bruce  _ died _ , but Cass ran away, and Tim took some deal from a magical bear and you’re not sure if you’ll ever see him again?” Dick, mutely, nods. She stares at him, and then lets out a long sigh. “Jesus, okay. Alright. Let me see what I can do.”

Relief washes over him, and he smiles,  _ really _ smiles, for the first time in what feels like weeks. “What would I do without you, Babs?” he asks. 

“Lose two siblings,  _ evidently _ ,” she says, with an edge to her voice that makes him wince. Then, “I’m going to grab some things I need, I’ll be right back. Is Cullen around?”

Dick nods. “Yeah, I think he, Duke, and Steph were playing video games in the den,” he says. Babs nods, and heads out of the room.

Five minutes later she’s returned with a large pot from the kitchen, a wooden spoon, a jug of water, a number of jars Dick recognises from Alfred’s spice rack, and a stack of photos that Tim must have taken, with Cullen and Steph hot on her heels. Steph is holding a familiar crinkled sheet of paper– Cass’ goodbye note. 

Holding her hands out like a conductor, Babs navigates the myriad of floating objects around her towards the desk, which Dick hurriedly attempts to clear of paperwork. The pot settles down on the desk, and the jug pours water into it before being placed beside it. Babs hands the photographs to Dick.

“Sort through these and find one that features Tim in it,” she tells him. Dick takes them and begins leafing through as Babs calls Cullen over and instructs him on the correct ratio of herbs to add to the water. 

The photos made Dick’s heart ache– they’re all candids, mostly pictures taken of the family around the manor and its grounds, and a few of them in Gotham. There’s one of Steph and Harper breaking down laughing at something off-camera; one of Duke giving Cass a piggy-back; one of Dick and Bruce discussing something intently over coffee; one of Cullen, Harper, Steph, Cass and Babs sat outside under a tree, braiding flowers; and then there’s one of Tim, posing with Steph. He remembers that photo– remembers  _ taking _ that photo. It had been Steph’s junior prom; and, having recently broken up with her boyfriend, she’d roped Tim into being her plus one for the night, stating that he needed to get out more. In the photo, Steph’s dressed in pale purple and glittering jewellery, her hair carefully styled, grinning as she pulls a dramatic pose with one arm wrapped around Tim’s shoulders. Tim, for his part, looks a little more dishevelled in a suit that doesn’t quite fit him right, his hair a flyaway mess where Steph had ruffled it upon seeing the slicked-back disaster he’d been trying for. He looks uncomfortable, posture stiff, but he’s leaning into Steph’s touch, a bemused smile on his face.

Dick plucks the photo from the pile and waits for Cullen to finish stirring it at Barbara’s instruction. Babs deciding to teach Cullen magic had been a surprise, but not an unwelcome one– it had brought Cullen out of his shell, given him a confidence Dick hadn’t seen in him when he’d fist come to the manor. It’s good for him.

“There, that should be enough,” Babs says, hovering her hand above the water and considering it with a critical eye. Cullen pulls the spoon out of the water and taps it against the rim of the pot one, two, three times, before placing it down on the desk. Babs holds her hand out and takes the photo from Dick. 

“Now,” she says, and she’s looking at Cullen but addressing the room at large, “Certain types of scrying spells can be done just by holding a very good image of the person you’re looking for in your mind, but this one is much easier if you have something belonging to a person, or something that represents them.” She holds the photo up in the air. “The more treasured an item, the easier the spell will be– Tim cares a lot about his photography, so using a photo seemed like the most obvious option. Of course, these are also images of people, and that might confuse the magic, so using a photograph of Tim himself is our best bet.” 

She places the photo face-up on the surface of the water. Dick half-moves to protest, because doing so will ruin the photo and Dick does  _ not _ want to be the one to explain that to Tim, but the water doesn’t soak into the photo like he expects, and it floats, completely dry, on top. Babs gestures to Cullen to place his hands on the rim of the pot, and then does so herself. “Now,” she instructs him, “I need you to think very strongly of Tim.” Cullen nods, face determined, and Babs closes her eyes and begins to chant under her breath.

Dick watches as the water begins to bubble, a pale, silvery steam rising up from its surface. As the steam touches the photo, its surface begins to bleach white, slowly removing the image. Dick watches it with baited breath, but nothing appears in its place: it’s now just a white sheet of photo-paper, floating on water. Babs finishes her chanting and blinks open her eyes, pursing her lips at the sight.

“What does that mean?” Dick asks, unable to keep his anxiety out of his voice.

“It could mean a couple of things,” Babs says. “Option one is that he’s in a place that is shielded from magical scrying.” She hesitates. 

“What’s option two?” Dick presses.

“Option two is that the magic can’t find Tim because there’s nothing to find.”

Silence fills the room. “What, like he’s  _ dead?” _ Steph asks, disbelief and desperation in her voice. Babs hesitates, then nods.

“But only if– Normally, if you’re looking for someone, and they’re dead, you’ll simply be shown the location of their corpse. But if the body is completely destroyed and any remains scattered… This would be the result.” She reaches forward and plucks the photo out of the water, shaking it until the original image begins to reappear. “It’s much more likely that he’s simply in a place that’s shielded.”

“But not guaranteed,” Dicks says, hollowly. His head is buzzing, and his stomach is heavy with dread.  _ Tim. Dead. Gone.  _ He can see it now, flashing behind his eyes: Tim at the mercy of a bear-monster much larger than himself, attempting to fight but failing, being torn to shreds and devoured, scattered to the winds. He wants to be sick.  _ My fault. Dead, and it’s my fault.  _ He fights back a scream, fights back the desperate protest of  _ but I gave him my blessing!  _

Babs shoots him a concerned look, but nods.

“But not guaranteed,” she agrees gravely.

“He’s not dead,” Steph says. “He’s  _ not _ .” She glares at Dick, who just stares back hopelessly. She jabs a finger at him. “I don’t have time for your guilt and your unfounded conclusions, okay? We have  _ no _ evidence that Tim is dead. This doesn’t prove anything. All it proves is that wherever he is, he can’t be seen via magic. He’s  _ not _ dead. He’s going to come back. And that’s  _ that _ .”

“But Steph–”

“But  _ nothing _ . He’s not dead, end of discussion.” She shoves the note she’s holding at Babs, who takes it with a wry expression. 

“Thank you for your input, Stephanie,” she says taking, the note, and then picks up the now-empty water jug to hand it to Steph. “Would you mind filling this up for me?” 

Steph takes it and flounces off. Cullen darts after her, throwing an, “I’ll talk to her,” over his shoulder as he leaves. Babs lets out a sigh and clicks her fingers, vanishing the water from the pot. 

“She’s right, you know,” she says to Dick. “You really don’t have any concrete evidence.”

Dick nods, still feeling sick. “He’s my little brother, Babs,” he says, and she smiles at him.

“I know. And that’s why you should have faith in him. Faith in his ability to survive. Faith that he’ll come back.”

“I  _ do _ have faith in him. I’m just… worried.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t be, but you can’t let that worry rule you. You’ve lost a lot of people, I know that, but you can’t let yourself mourn over a death that might not even have happened when you have so many people relying on you.” 

Dick sighs. “You’re right,” he says. “It’s just… hard. I haven’t even had time to process  _ Bruce’s _ death with everything that’s going on. Everything’s just overwhelming, and scary, and I think I’m technically, legally a parent now? And that’s terrifying, and–”

“Hey.” Babs reaches out and takes his hands. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”

“How do you know that?” Dick asks, hating how close to tears he feels.

“Because I know  _ you _ ,” she tells him. Then, “I’ll stay for a bit. Help out around the manor. Give you a break.”

“God, Babs, you’re the best, you know that?”

She grins. “I try.” 

The door opens, and Cullen reenters the room, Steph following behind him, the now-full jug held in her arms. Babs looks back at them and gestures towards the pot.

“Just pour the water in there, Steph, if you don’t mind.” Steph does so, and Babs beckons Cullen up to the desk. “Now, do you think you can add the herbs by yourself?”

Cullen’s eyes are wide. “Um, I can try?”

“Go on, then,” Babs says. “I’ll be watching, and if you get lost, you can ask.”

Cullen nods nervously and begins his task. To his credit, Babs only needs to intervene twice, and nods approvingly as he finishes stirring. She then places Cass’ note on top of the water and begins to chant again. Dick watches as the note once again bleaches white with baited breath, and then lets it out as shapes begin to fade in.

By the time Babs opens her eyes, the note is now an image. Cass is the only thing in focus, and she looks… fine. She looks  _ fine _ . She’s wearing her skin as a cloak, her face impassive but not distressed in any way. Her gaze is fixed on a point just out of frame. The scenery around her is blurred and fuzzy, but it’s enough to make out that she’s in a forest of some kind. 

Steph frowns, pointing at one of the blurry shapes in the background. “Is that a person?”

“Looks like it,” Babs agrees. Dick leans forward, and yeah, it does look like there’s someone there with Cass, though it’s hard to make out much about them. They’re tall, he can tell that for sure, with… long red hair?

“So she’s not alone,” Cullen says. “That’s good, right?”

“She doesn’t seem to be in any distress, so I’d say so,” Babs says. She picks up the note and shakes it to return it to its original form before handing it back to Steph. “So, Cass is fine, wherever she is. Tim is somewhere where magic can’t reach him, which is a little more worrying, but not necessarily a bad thing.” She glances around at all of them. “Did that help?”

“Yeah,” Dick admits, after a moment. “Yeah, it did.”

“Thank you, Babs,” Steph says. Cullen wraps his arm around Babs in a half-hug, and she squeezes him back.

“Are you staying for dinner?” he asks her. Barbara nods.

“I’m going to stay for a couple of weeks, I think,” she says. Cullen and Steph both perk up excitedly.

“You are?” Steph asks. Babs nods.

“I think you could all use a little extra support,” she says. “Besides, I haven’t been around much lately. I’d like to spend more time with you.” 

Steph and Cullen grin. Babs catches Dick’s eye and winks. He smiles back and thinks that maybe things won’t be so awful after all.

* * *

“Dick.” Steph appears in the doorway. “Have you seen Damian?”

Dick glances up his laptop, frowning. He’s just handed in his notice at work, and now he’s attempting to find another job, one closer to home. It’s not going too well. “No, why?” 

“We were going to hang out, but I can’t find him.”   
Dick’s eyebrows raise. “You were going to hang out?”

“Yeah,” Steph says. “I figured that the more time he spends with us, the sooner he’ll learn not to be the literal worst. We were gonna make smoothies. I let him try some of mine the other day, and he seemed to like it.” 

“Alfred’s okay with you using the kitchen?”

“Yeah. I actually think the brat’s growing on him. He snapped and yelled at him after he hurt Tim the second time, and I think Damian actually respects him now.” She bites her lip. “But I can’t find him anywhere; I’ve looked all over.”

Dick pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll help you look. Have you tried outside?”

Steph glances at the window, where the rain is pouring down. “Not yet,” she admits. 

“I’ll go,” he says. “You double-check everywhere in the manor. Have you tried the old nursery?”

Steph shakes her head. “No, I don’t know if he even knows it’s there. I’ll go look. Thanks, Dick!”

She scurries off, and Dick goes to grab a raincoat before venturing outside. He hopes that if Damian  _ is _ outside, he hasn’t gone far. The manor grounds are large, and Dick really isn’t looking forward to stumbling through the rain looking for him.

He’s been out for about fifteen minutes– fifteen long, agonising minutes– when he spots Damian walking towards him. The kid isn’t wearing a coat, instead holding one in his arms. Dick frowns, picking up the pace as he makes his way over.

“What’re you doing out here in this weather?” Dick asks, once he’s within earshot. Damian looks up at him, the expression on his face determined. 

“I found him,” he says, and that’s when Dick notices the tiny black-and-white kitten in Damian’s arms, bundled up in his coat. “He’s all alone, and he’ll get cold out here in the rain.”

He looks down at the little cat with such fondness that it makes Dick’s heart squeeze painfully in his chest.  _ Oh. _ He finds himself smiling despite himself. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get both of you inside and dried off.”

Half an hour later, Dick, Damian, and Steph are lying on the floor of the den before the fireplace, watching the little kitten pad around the rug and sniff at the air. 

“He’s so cute,” Steph gushes. “What’s his name?”

“Alfred,” Damian replies, immediately. Steph and Dick exchange a look.

“Why Alfred?” Steph asks.

“He looks like an Alfred,” Damian says matter-of-factly. “Does he not?”

Dick looks down at the kitten’s tuxedo coat, and smiles. “Yeah, he does,” he agrees. He sticks his hand out towards the cat, making soft kissing noises. “Hi, Alfred,” he greets softly. Alfred pads forward and sniffs at his fingers, before pushing his head against Dick’s hand. Dick runs a finger softly over the kitten’s ears.

Footsteps come echoing from the hall, and Duke, Cullen, and Harper rush into the room.

“Steph said something about a cat?” Duke asks, breathless. Out of the corner of his eye, Dick sees Damian stiffen.

“Guys, this is Alfred,” Dick says, gesturing to the little cat. “He’s the newest member of our family. He’s very small, so be gentle, okay?”

The three of them make their way over to the rug, and Dick draws back to let them coo over the kitten. 

“He’s so  _ cute _ ,” Cullen whispers. “Hi, Alfie.”

“Who named him?” Harper asks, smiling as Alfred rubs against the side of her hand.

“Damian did,” Steph says. “It’s fitting, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” Harper agrees, glancing up at Damian. “So, do you like animals then, Damian?”

Damian gives a stiff nod. “Yes. I don’t mind them.”

“That’s cool. You know, there’s an animal shelter down in Gotham that Cullen volunteers at occasionally. Maybe you could go with him next time.”

“Maybe,” Damian says, and the next thing anyone knows, he’s on his feet. “Excuse me,” he says, and flees the room.

“Uh.” Harper blinks dazedly. “Was it something I said?”

“I’ll go talk to him,” Dick says. “You guys keep an eye on Alfred.”   
“That’s going to get confusing,” Duke comments.

“Well, as long as we don’t start giving butler-Alfred headpats, it should be fine,” Steph says with a grin. Dick chuckles to himself at the mental image as he makes his way out of the room and up the stairs to Damian’s room. 

He knocks on the door. “Damian?” he calls. “Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Dick says. “I just wanted to make sure that you were okay, is all.”

“I am perfectly fine, Grayson.” 

“Did someone say something that upset you? You don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to, you know. Harper was just offering.”   
“I  _ know _ .” Damian’s voice is irritated, but Dick catches a note of panic underneath it.

“What’s wrong, then?”

“Nothing’s wrong!”

“It’s okay if something is, you know.”

A pause, and then, “What?”

“It’s okay if you’re upset. You’re allowed to be; we won’t be mad at you for getting upset. You just need to let us know so that we can avoid making you upset in the future.”

“That is a lie,” Damian says with a sniff. “You got mad at me for being upset before.”

“Because before you tried to hurt people. It’s okay to feel hurt. it’s not okay to take that hurt out on other people.”

Damian’s silent for a long time. “I don’t like people,” he says eventually.

“Um.” Dick doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“ _ Trolls _ don’t like people. You are all… overwhelming. For us. We keep our distance. Here, it is…” 

Dick thinks he’s beginning to understand. “It’s overwhelming for you,” he says.

“Yes,” Damian agrees. “You are all loud, and you smell strange, and your language is unintuitive. You don’t look at the world the same way. I find that I do not understand you at all.”

“So all this time,” Dick says, “you’ve been lashing out at us because we’ve been overwhelming you and you’re having trouble adjusting to a human culture?”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” Damian says, a light note of disdain in his voice.

“Okay,” Dick says. “So what can we do to help? How do we make it less overwhelming for you to be here?”

Damian pauses again, and when he speaks, he sounds hesitant. “I don’t like being surrounded by a lot of people. One or two of you are fine, but all of you are… too much.”

“Okay,” Dick agrees. “We can do that. I’ll talk to the others about it. Is there anything else?”

“I…” Damian trails off, like he’s not sure what he ought to say. 

“You can come and talk to me later if you think of anything,” Dick offers. “If you don’t know right now.”

Another pause. Then, “Yes. If you do not mind.”

“Of course I don’t. We want to help you feel comfortable here, Damian, whatever that takes.” He pushes himself off the wall where he’s been leaning against the doorframe. “I’ll go let the others know. Is there anything you want? I can grab you something from the kitchen, if you’d like?”

“No,” Damian says. Then, “Thank you, Grayson.”

“No problem, little D,” Dick says, smiling uncontrollably as he leaves.  _ He’s gotten through to Damian _ . After everything that’s happened in the past month and a half, this feels like a victory.

* * *

Dick glances from the design sketches Cullen had given him to the treehouse to the pile of wood and tools at the foot of the tree.

“Are you sure this is architecturally sound?” he asks. Cullen nods.

“It should be! I got Harper to help with it.” 

“It’ll definitely work,” Harper chimes in from where she’s looking over the power tools with a critical eye. Dick, looking at the sketch, has his doubts, but he trusts Harper’s judgement.

“Well, then,” he says. “Let’s get to work.”

It takes hours to make progress on the latest addition to the treehouse– a small tower with a viewing deck, built into the branches. Dick ends up balancing precariously in the branches, hammering pieces of wood together into the hexagonal tower-shape, while Cullen cuts the boards and Harper scurries up and down the tree to deliver them and occasionally check Dick’s work.

Around lunchtime, Alfred comes out into the garden and delivers them some sandwiches and fresh lemonade, Damian hovering around him.

“I trust that you’re being careful,” Alfred says, as he hands the tray to Dick. Dick grins.

“Of course, Alfie! When am I ever not being careful?” Alfred’s expression says exactly what he thinks of that, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Would you like to stay and eat out here, Master Damian?” Alfred asks the boy half-hiding behind him. Damian hesitates, and Dick smiles comfortingly at him.

“You don’t have to, but we wouldn’t mind it,” he says. Damian hesitates, and then nods. 

“Here, come sit by me,” Harper offers, shuffling to the side. Damian does so, and, after a moment, reaches out to take one of the cucumber sandwiches on the tray.

Alfred heads back inside with an, “I wish you luck on the rest of your endeavour,” and the four of them descend on the offered lunch. 

“What is the point of this… treehouse?” Damian asks, after a while.

“It’s just another place to hang out,” Cullen says. “It’s nice sometimes because it’s a bit away from the house, and most people don’t come out here too often, so if you need to be alone, you can be.”

Damian seems to perk up a little at that, so Dick adds, “You’re always welcome to come out here if you want, Damian. The treehouse is free for all of us to use.”

“If there’s someone else in there and you want to go in, they might ask you for the password,” Harper adds. “In that case, it’s ‘Batman’.”

Damian blinks, frowning. “Why ‘Batman’? What does that mean?”

Dick grins. “So, it was  _ years _ ago, and we were watching a movie– Bruce, Jason, Alfred, and I. I think we were watching  _ Spiderman _ ? And at one point, a bat comes crashing through the window, shattering the glass, and flies straight in B’s face. Jason and I freak out a little bit, but Bruce just grabs the bat, which is trying to get away, walks back to the window, and puts it outside. Jason asks if he’s okay, and Bruce says, completely deadpan, ‘It bit me. What if it was a radioactive bat and I get bat superpowers?’ And Alfred replies, ‘Well then, Sir, I imagine you would have to put on a mask and go out to fight criminals dressed as a bat.’ I don’t remember who it was that first said the word ‘Batman’, but it became an inside joke of some kind, and now it’s the treehouse password.”

“So if you’re in there, and someone wants to get in, they can only do it if they know the password.”

Damian’s frowning. “Why would a bat bite give him superpowers?”   
“Because in  _ Spiderman _ , he gets bitten by a– Wait.” Cullen cuts off, staring at Damian. “Have you  _ ever _ watched a movie?” 

“No,” Damian says, wary.

“Oh my god, we need to rectify this,” Cullen says. “You know, I’m pretty sure we’ve got a spare TV lying around somewhere. I can bring it into the treehouse and we can watch some movies together.”

“We?” Damian questions. Cullen nods.

“Me and you. If that’s okay?”

Damian hesitates. “Just the two of us?” he checks. Cullen nods.

“Yeah, little dude. Nothing overwhelming, just the two of us and some cinema.”

Damian seems to mull over the idea before nodding. “Yes,” he says. “I’d like that.”

Dick and Harper share a smile.

After they finish lunch, Damian heads back inside, taking the tray with him, and the three of them return to work on the tower. By the time they finish, the sun is sinking low on the horizon, the moon already visible.

Dick groans, flopping back on the deck at the top of the tower. “I’m never doing this again,” he proclaims. 

“It looks great, though,” Harper says, standing on the platform by the treehouse door. “We did good work.”   
“That we did,” Dick agrees.

“Alfred’s calling us inside for dinner,” Cullen calls, from down on the ground. “Come on, I’m  _ starving _ .” 

The two of them climb down from the tree, and join Cullen in walking back to the manor. The night air is warm, and Dick marvels at the realisation that they’re already in summer. Where did the time go?

“How about,” he offers, as they head in through the conservatory doors, “After dinner, all of us come out here and roast some marshmallows on a camping stove and do some stargazing?”

Cullen grins, nodding enthusiastically, and Harper replies, “Sounds fun. We could do s’mores.”

“Oh, we’re  _ definitely _ doing s’mores,” Dick agrees.

And they do: they end up staying outside late into the night, playing music on a portable speaker and making their way through a jumbo-sized bag of marshmallows, gathered around a camping stove. Damian sits above their heads on the treehouse platform, watching from a distance, part of the festivities but not overwhelmed. Steph and Dick take turns making up the most ridiculous names and stories for fake constellations which send Cullen into fits of giggles, while Duke, Harper, and Barbara conspire to figure out the best technique for roasting marshmallows, something that ends with more than a few of them catching fire.

Dick lies on his back and looks up at the stars glittering in a dark velvet sky, feeling lighter than he has in a long, long time. His eyes trace the shape of Ursa Major, and then Ursa Minor, and he thinks of his missing siblings.  _ Come home,  _ he thinks, hoping that his thoughts will reach them somehow.  _ Please come home _ . 

* * *

A week later finds all of them– minus Damian, who Dick’s spotted watching them through an upstairs window– out in the manor grounds once again, this time waging war against each other with super-soakers. Dick, already drenched, ducks behind a tree, readying his weapon. He can hear laughter and yelling from a few yards away, and he could join the brawl, but his water level is running low, and he really ought to refill. However, Babs and Harper have created an embargo around the tap, and are acting without mercy against anyone who comes near.

He’ll need to be quick. He’ll need to be clever. He’ll need to be stealthy.

He glances back to make sure the others are still occupied, and then starts sprinting through the trees towards the manor. Steph and Babs are standing a few feet in front of the tap, a bucket of water balloons at their feet, both sporting weapons. Dick takes a deep breath, and darts forward, out of his cover and towards the tap. Steph squeaks as he skids past her, and he ducks to get to the tap, only for a balloon to hit him square in the face and soak him through.

He splutters, glaring up at Babs, who just laughs at him. “Sorry,” she says, not sounding it in the slightest. “Go on, fill up your gun, we won’t get you again.”

“Don’t pull any funny business, though,” Steph threatens, hefting her weapon. “I’ve got my eye on you, Grayson.”

Dick rolls his eyes and grumbles under his breath as he sets about filling his gun. He’s just finishing up when he suddenly realises that the grounds have gone deathly silent. He jerks his head up, alarmed, and just has time to spot two figures in the distance heading towards them when Harper shatters the silence.

“Cass!”

He shoots to his feet and sure enough, he recognises the smaller of the two figures as Cass. He takes off at a run, Steph at his side as the two of them sprint towards her.

As he gets closer, he’s able to make out more about the other person with Cass: tall, perhaps in his late teens or maybe early twenties, with a rugged sort of charm and a shock of white in his otherwise dark hair. He’s wearing a short red-lined brown cloak over a black shirt and breeches, with battered brown boots. His face is twisted in something akin to a grimace, and his shoulders are set in such a way that betrays his discomfort at the situation. Something about him feels familiar, an itch in the back of Dick’s mind that he can’t quite scratch.

Steph throws herself at Cass, quickly joined by Harper and Duke. Cass embraces them back, and then pulls away, smiling up at all of them.

“Sorry,” she says. “For leaving.”

“We were so worried about you!” Steph cries. “Never do that again!”

The person next to Cass shifts uncomfortably, and at that moment, it clicks in Dick’s head just who this is, but–  _ No _ . It  _ can’t _ be. It can’t, because, because– 

“Jason?” he whispers, voice thick with disbelief, and the stranger–  _ Jason _ – freezes. Dick stares. “Jason, is that you?”

The rest of their siblings have gone silent, staring with eyes wide as saucers at the dead brother they never had the chance to meet. Cass’ smile has turned slightly smug. All Dick can do is stare at Jason, who refuses to make eye contact with him,

“Hi, Dick,” he says, voice rough, deeper than Dick remembers but familiar all the same.

“Oh, my god,” Dick breathes, and then he’s surging forward and wrapping his little brother– his  _ dead _ little brother, the one who  _ died _ , the one he’d  _ mourned _ – in his arms and sobbing. Jason stiffens under his touch, before hugging him back. 

“Hey, don’t– don’t cry–”

Dick pulls back, wiping the tears away with one arm. “How?” he asks, and he  _ knows _ he’s a mess, but he doesn’t care because Jason is here and he’s got to know  _ how _ . “You– You  _ died _ –” 

“Yeah,” Jason breathes. “I did.” He swallows. “I, uh. The Piper’s magic was maybe stronger than we gave it credit for.”

“The Pied Piper brought you back from the dead?” Babs asks, voice thick with disbelief.

Jason nods.“Yeah, uh, I– it’s a long story.”

“Well then,” Dick says, wiping away the last of his tears, “You’d better come in, and tell us all about it.” 

* * *

Alfred makes all of them who had been participating in the water fight dry off and change, spiriting Cass and Jason away to the kitchen. They all pretend not to notice the old butler’s tears at Jason’s sudden appearance.

Dick’s the first one to make it to the kitchen, still towelling off his hair as he enters the room. Alfred has provided Cass and Jason with some tea. Several more cups wait on a tray in the centre of the table, alongside a mountain of sandwiches and cakes. Alfred is sitting opposite Jason, arm stretched across the table to hold his hand, and if both of them are crying, nobody says anything about it.

“Ah, Master Dick,” Alfred says, swallowing his tears. “I’ll leave you to fill Master Jason in.” 

He stands, and Dick slides into his seat, taking his mug of tea from the centre of the table and cradling it in his hands.

“So,” Jason says, voice cracking slightly even as he wipes the tears from his face, “I think B might have a bit of an adoption problem.”

Dick barks a laugh. “Oh my god, you have  _ no _ idea,” he says, grinning. “They’re good kids, but they’re more than a bit of a handful sometimes. Let me know if they’re overwhelming you at all, and I’ll let them know to back off. Or tell Cass, everyone listens to Cass.”   
Cass smiles smugly and says, “Big sister,” pointing at herself.

Jason glances between the two of them, looking unsure, before eventually asking, “Is it true? Is he… gone?”

Dick bites his lip. “Jason, I’m sorry.”

Jason sniffs, blinking hard like he’s trying not to cry again. “I haven’t seen him in  _ years _ . Why am I…?” 

“He was still your dad, Jay.”

“I stayed away,” Jason whispers. “I could have come back any time, and I didn’t. He died thinking I was…”

“Couldn’t have known,” Cass says, poking Jason in the chest. “Hear me? Did nothing wrong.”   
“She’s right,” Dick says. “ _ God _ , Jason, I don’t know where you’ve been or what you’ve been up to, but I’m so happy you’re back. And I know B would be relieved to know you’re alive, even if he’s not.”

Jason nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “I– I guess.” 

It’s at this point that Steph crashes into the room, hair a frizzy, wet mess, grinning brightly. “Hi,” she says to Jason, “I’m Steph.”

“Um.” Jason blinks. “Hi?”

“I wanted to try and get here before the others because I’m guessing that no one’s given you a rundown on who’s who, and I figured you’d like a heads up.” She sidles around the table and slips into a seat beside Dick. To Dick’s surprise, Jason relaxes a little.

“Yeah, actually, I would,” he says, relief and gratitude evident in his voice.

“Right,” Steph says. “Age order, from the top! You obviously already know Dick and Cass.” She gestures to the two of them as she speaks. “There’s also Babs, she’s not one of B’s kids but she  _ is _ part of the family. She’s a witch, she saved Cass and I this one time, and she’s the best of us, truly. Absolutely do not try to get any bullshit past her. She sees all, knows all, and can kick your ass any day of the week– just ask Dick.”

“Hey!” Dick complains.

Jason’s obviously trying hard not to smile. “Noted.”

“Then, there’s me! Stephanie Brown, freshman at Gotham U, pre-med, natch. I’m a decent martial artist, a terrible planner, and people try to tell me that I have a death wish, but  _ they _ don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“I know the feeling,” Jason says, a touch of wry bemusement to his voice. 

“Then, there’s… Tim,” Steph continues, trailing off towards the end. Cass perks up at that, narrowing her eyes.

“Where  _ is _ Tim?” she asks.

“Uhh…” Steph and Dick exchange a look. “It’s a long story,” Steph says. “I’m sure Dick can explain later.” Dick glares at her. 

“Sure,” he grinds out.

“But Tim is, uh, not here at the minute. He’s smart, a little nerdy. Big into photography. He’s also full of shit–”    
“Steph, be nice to your brother.”

“–but he also doesn’t take anybody  _ else’s _ shit,” Steph finishes, ignoring Dick. “After Tim is Harper, she’s one of the coolest people you’ll ever meet. She’s sharp as hell, incredibly protective, and she won’t hesitate to screw you over if you screw  _ her _ over. Then there’s Duke, who is– Duke’s just  _ nice _ . He’s really easy to get on with. Everyone loves Duke. 

“After Duke is Cullen. He’s Harper’s bio-brother. He’s a little on the anxious side, but he’s a good kid. He's good with computers and a pretty decent artist. Babs is teaching him magic as well. Then, finally, there’s Damian, the newest addition to the family. He’s  _ Bruce’s _ bio-kid, which was a shock to everybody but I think Bruce most of all, and he’s kind of a terrible gremlin child, but he’s getting better. He gets overwhelmed when there are too many people in one place, so try and avoid crowding him and he probably won’t stab you.  _ Probably _ .” 

Dick spares a glance at Jason, who’s staring at Steph with a dazed expression on his face. “You alright?” Dick asks him. Jason startles a little, then nods.

“Yeah, just, um, a lot to take in, is all. It feels like almost everything has changed.”

“You were gone for a long time,” Dick says. Jason sighs.

“Yeah. Guess I’d better tell you what I was up to.”

They wait a few more minutes for the others to enter the kitchen, introduce themselves, and tuck in on the afternoon tea Alfred’s prepared for them before Jason begins his tale.

“Well, you know how it begins. Or– how it ended? B and I were investigating a series of towns on the other side of the lines, all of which had suddenly lost all of their children. I met some kids who’d managed to escape the Piper, and followed them back to their hideout, only for the Piper to arrive and, well. He killed me. You know that.” He takes a deep, shaking breath, staring down at the mug in his hands. 

“I… died. And then I woke up. The first thing I remember is music. Waking me up, pulling me to my feet, controlling my movements. We knew that the Piper had the ability to control others with music, but I don’t think anyone realised that that control extended beyond the grave as well.” 

“If the Piper’s music is what brought you back to life, how can you be here now?” Babs asks. “I was under the impression that his magic is short-term and short-range.”

“Oh, it is,” Jason says. “I followed him for years, because I couldn’t leave without dropping dead. But I picked up some stuff in that time, enough to eventually take back my own life.” He reaches under his cloak and pulls out a wooden pipe, laying it on the table in front of him. The room goes deathly silent. All of the air rushes out of Dick’s body as he stares at the instrument, the implications of it buzzing in his mind.

“You’re a Piper,” Duke says.

“Yes,” Jason agrees, voice hard, eyes darting around like he expects one of them to lash out at him. “I don’t– I’m not  _ him _ . I don’t go around stealing kids or killing people and resurrecting their corpses or whatever.”

“Of course not,” Dick says softly, reaching out to take his brother’s hand. “We’d never even think that.”

“Oh.” Jason sounds more than a little confused by that, and Dick’s heart breaks, because how was he so convinced that they’d think the worst of him like that? “Well. Good. I mostly use it for self-defence. And keeping myself alive. I don’t– I’ve been controlled by a Piper, I wouldn’t do it to anyone else. So none of you have to worry about that.” He swallows. “So. I learned how to play. And then I… left.” 

There’s more there, Dick knows, but he doesn’t push, and neither do any of the others. If Jason doesn’t want to tell them, none of them will force him, not while they’re still trying to convince themselves that this is real, that he’s really here.

“I travelled on my own for a while, helping out anyone who needed me. That’s how I met Sasha. She wanted to leave town, and I let her tag along with me, and we’ve been working together ever since. And then we met others– Kori and Roy and Artemis and Biz– and for the past couple of years, we’ve all been living together out in the woods, helping people who need us.” He shrugs. “And then Cass found me and filled me in on some of the stuff that’s been happening here and asked me to come home, so here I am.”

“I think I speak for all of us when I say we are very glad to have you home, Master Jason,” Alfred says from where he’s been hovering. Dick, who’d been trying to come up with a response and finding nothing, once again thanks God for Alfred Pennyworth.

* * *

Dick finds Cass up on the roof. Sunset is staining the horizon with red and gold, casting the manor grounds in a fiery hue. Cass has her skin pulled up, the hood already merging into her face, her eyes bright as they reflect the light, embedded in dark fur.

“You left,” Dick says, sitting down beside her.

“Head busy. Loud. Needed to think.”

“You should have said something.”

“You wouldn’t have let me go.”

Dick sighs, because she has a point there. “I needed you,” he says, instead of attempting to convince her otherwise. She’d be able to see right through him, anyway. Cass had always had an uncanny ability to read people.

“Did not,” Cass tells him. 

“I did! Things have been so awful here, Cass. Tim left, and there was a point where it seemed like everyone was mad at me, and it took me so long to even figure out a starting point with Damian–” Cass cuts him off with a flick to the forehead. “Hey!” He rubs at the spot, pouting at her. She smiles.

“Not as bad as you think,” she tells him. “You made mistakes. But not…” She pauses for a moment, twirling her hand as she struggles to find the right word. “Unforgivable. You did good.”

“I don’t feel like I did,” Dick says.

“I don’t feel,” Cass says, “I know.” She stands up, stretching, and then holds out a hand to him. “Inside?”

Dick takes her hand, allows her to help him to his feet. She smiles at him again, warm and understanding, lit by the colours of the sunset behind her. 

“Things are hard,” she tells him. “You are harder.”

Dick narrows his eyes at her. “I feel like there’s an insult hidden in there.”

Her smile turns into a wicked smirk. “Hard head,” she says, tapping his skull like she’s knocking on a door. “Need me to set you straight.”

And then she’s gone, ducking back in through the attic window. Dick stands on the roof for a moment more, looking up at the sky for a moment more before turning and following her back inside.

* * *

It takes Dick several days to get a minute alone with Jason. Almost every time he finds his long-lost brother, he’s helping Alfred out with something around the house and either telling or listening to a story from the past few years, or he’s been roped into some kind of bonding activity by one or more of their siblings. 

To Jason’s credit, he doesn’t seem to mind, and despite how uncomfortable he sometimes looks, he seems to get on well with the others. He and Cass have an easy, quiet dynamic– sometimes Dick will spot them having quiet conversations up in the rafters, or find Jason reading aloud to Cass in the library (sometimes during the day, where she sits by his side and reads over his shoulder; sometimes at night, where she curls up by his feet in bear form and just listens). He even spots the two of them playing Just Dance one time, and has to sneak out his phone and take a surreptitious video of their competition.

Jason seems to like Harper well enough. Dick catches the two of them chatting excitedly about cars, and then Harper starts talking about her renovations to the manor’s lighting systems, which Dick personally thinks is incredibly boring (though he’s proud of Harper for following her passions; it’s just not  _ his _ thing) but that Jason asks a lot of questions about. He even comes across Jason and Cullen having what looks like a very intense conversation that he’s not close enough to overhear.

Damian is the only member of the family Dick doesn’t catch Jason speaking with, and he wonders if it’s because Damian’s been avoiding him– but when Dick asks him about it, Damian just replies that he can never find Jason alone, and doesn’t feel like interacting with a group, which Dick supposes is fair. They’ll have plenty of time once everything’s calmed down and everyone’s adjusted enough to Jason being here to not demand his attention all hours of the day.

By and far, though, Jason seems to get on best with Steph and Duke– Dick’s constantly finding any combination of them hanging out, playing games, or watching TV, almost always laughing amongst themselves.

It’s good. He’s glad Jason’s getting to know his siblings– he’s glad his siblings have the chance to get to know Jason, their legendary big brother they’d all been certain they’d never meet.

But he can’t deny the relief he feels when he climbs up to the treehouse and glances through the window to see Jason sitting on one of the beanbags inside. He reaches up and knocks on the door, and sure enough, Jason yells out, “Password?”   
“Batman!”

“Hm. You may enter.”

Dick does so, closing the door behind him, and drops into one of the other beanbags. “How’re you doing?” he asks. 

Jason shrugs.“I just needed some time away from it all. It’s been cool getting to know everyone, but–”

“It’s a lot,” Dick says sympathetically. 

“Yeah,” Jason sighs. He glances around the room, gesturing as he says, “This place has changed.”   
“Yeah. Everyone’s added their own little things to it over the years, plus all of the extensions. Harper, Cullen and I built the tower two weeks ago.”

“It’s not quite as good as the roof,” Jason says, grinning slightly. Dick grins back, rolling his eyes.

“You and that roof, I swear. Did you ever come down?”

“I like to be up high.”

“The amount of times you almost gave B a heart attack.”

“Hey, it’s not like you weren’t worse with all the circus stunts you pulled.”

“Maybe.” Dick smirks. “It’s… It’s really good to have you back, Jay. I missed you.”

Jason hesitates for a second, his smile dropping, before he says, “I didn’t think you would.”

Dick blinks. “What?”

“I didn’t think you’d miss me. I didn’t think… any of you would. I came back, once, before the Outlaws, after I got free of the Piper, and I saw all these kids playing on the grounds, and I just thought, ‘Oh. They’ve replaced me. There’s no reason to go back.’”

“Jason, no,” Dick says, reaching over to take his brother’s hand. “We missed you  _ so much _ . B was heartbroken without you. We all were. The others are great, and I love them, but they’re their own people. They’re not you. They could never fill your space.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, looking away and swallowing in that way he did whenever he was trying not to cry.  _ Does _ . It’s so strange, thinking about Jason in present tense again. “I got that, eventually. They were all… so excited to meet me. Like, they’d heard so many stories, and they wanted to get to know their big brother.”

“You are kind of a legend around here,” Dick says, smiling. 

Jason shakes his head. “But I’m  _ not _ , Dick. You know that, right? I was a stupid kid who got myself killed, and now I’m a Piper and a criminal and– They  _ shouldn’t _ look up to me like that.” 

“Hey, hey,” Dick says, voice soft. “That’s not true. You weren’t stupid, for one. You’ve never been stupid, and– Fuck, Jay, you were  _ murdered _ . That’s not your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have come back,” Jason says, shaking his head. “I can’t– I don’t belong here, Dick. I can’t  _ stay _ .” 

Dick  _ wants _ him to stay. Wants him to stay more than anything. Wants to be able to look at his brother every day, just to prove to himself that Jason’s alive. But he recognises that look in Jason’s eye and the tone in his voice. He remembers being an eighteen-year-old who couldn’t leave home fast enough. Maybe he doesn’t quite know what this means to Jason, but he gets it. In the barest sense of the word, he gets it.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says, swallowing. “We’d all like you to, but we won’t force you. Just– Take a communicator. Stay in touch. Come home every once in a while. Come back for the holidays, maybe, hell, even bring your friends. You can go wherever, just don’t make us lose you again.”

Jason still doesn’t look happy. “I’m not the same kid you knew, Dick. I’ve changed.”   
“We’ve all changed. That’s what people do.” 

“Don’t act like you know me–”

“Maybe I don’t,” Dick cuts him off before he can start yelling, “but I want to. I want to get to know the person you are now. At least give me a chance? Give all of us a chance?”

Jason looks him in the eye for the first time all conversation, searching his face for some sign of dishonesty. Dick concentrates on being an open book, and letting all his emotions show.

“Fine,” Jason sighs. “Okay.”

Dick nods. “Good.” Then, “So, did you have a plan to leave, or are you just thinking about it?”

Jason shrugs. “I dunno. I thought I’d at least stay another week, but then…”

“How about you stay until your birthday?” Dick suggests. “That’s a week and a half from now. We can throw you a joint birthday-goodbye party.” 

Jason laughs. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees.

* * *

The next week and a half flies by. Jason’s birthday-goodbye party is a mess of laughter, dancing, food, and tears. Duke and Steph get into an argument over the amount of candles to put on the cake and whether Jason is nineteen, as Duke argues, or whether he’s only four, because a second life restarts the count, as Steph insists. In the end, they place fifteen green candles and four red ones as a compromise. They give gifts, most of which are from their large stash of adventuring equipment, but some of which are more personal– Cullen gives him a small spell-pouch that’s meant to be some kind of dream repellant, Alfred gifts him a collection of classic novels that Dick remembers Jason enjoying as a kid, and Harper hands Jason the keys to a  _ fucking motorcyle.  _

“I know it won’t work beyond the leylines, but if you ever have business on this side, you’ll have a way to get around,” she tells him. 

“Holy shit, I love you,” Jason gushes. Harper just laughs and points him in the direction of where she’s stashed the bike.

“How’d you afford that?” Dick asks her later, once the two of them are out of earshot of the others. Harper smirks at him.

“My inheritance,” she replies.

“You aren’t supposed to receive that until you’re eighteen,” he points out, but she just smirks wider.

“I have my ways.”

After they’ve all sung “Happy Birthday,” had their fair share of party food, and begun to lose energy as afternoon winds down into evening, Dick approaches Jason with the two cakes he’d baked the evening before, after everyone else had gone to bed. 

“For your journey,” he says, offering them. Jason raises an eyebrow, and takes the smaller of the two with a smirk.

“You can’t trick me, Grayson,” he drawls as he wraps it in a napkin. 

“It wasn’t a trick!” Dick says, mock-offended. “Maybe I just wanted to give you my blessing, ever think of that.”

“You could have just given me the blessing without the choice.” 

“Ah, but that’s not as fun.” Dick winks. “Plus, this way you have cake.”

“I  _ do _ have cake,” Jason agrees, smiling. “Thanks, Dick, really. For everything.”

“Of course,” Dick replies, and then he’s wrapping his little brother up in a hug. “You will stay in touch, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, voice thick. “Don’t worry, I won’t stay away for good this time.”

“Good.” Dick pulls back. “And remember, I want to meet your friends sometime! Especially this Cauliflower chick.”

“ _ Koriand’r _ ,” Jason corrects with a roll of his eyes. “You can meet her when you get her name right, dickface.”

Dick laughs. “Alright. But seriously, bring them round sometime.”

“Sure, sure.” Jason rolls his eyes, pushing Dick away. “Can I go now?”

“One more hug,” Dick says, and does just that. “Stay safe, Jay. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Jason says, heavy sarcasm in his voice, but Dick just ruffles his hair and lets him go.

He watches from afar as Jason says goodbye to the others, and then the rest of them cluster together and watch from the top of a hill as he walks down towards the leylines, and vanishes into the sunset.

* * *

August fades into September, and with it come the late-summer, early-autumn storms. Dick lies in bed listening to the rain pound against the windowpane, trying to sleep and not finding any. Normally weather like this helps– the background noise is soothing– but tonight he’s restless, and he can’t turn his brain off. He keeps thinking about Jason– about Tim– out there beyond the lines.

Thunder cracks loud enough that Dick feels his bones shake, and he gives up on sleeping, pulling himself out of bed and drawing a blanket around his shoulders like a cloak. He creeps out of his room, considering heading downstairs to get himself some hot chocolate, when he notices light spilling out from under the door to the upper floor of the library.

He opens the door quietly, spotting the lit lamp by one of the sofas. He peeks over the back of the couch to find Damian curled up on the cushions. It takes Dick a moment to register that he’s trembling.

“Hey,” he greets softly, and Damian jumps, glancing up at him with wild eyes. 

“Oh. Grayson. It’s you.” Damian sounds shaken in a way that Dick’s never heard from him before.

He frowns, and is just about to ask what’s wrong when it dawns on him. “You don’t like the storm, huh?”

Damian hesitates, then shakes his head. “I don’t. We… don’t. It’s a troll thing.”

Dick leaves the doorway and makes his way over to the sofa. “Trolls don’t like storms?” Damian shakes his head. “Loud noises. Sudden light. It is… uncomfortable.”

He looks scared more than uncomfortable, but Dick doesn’t point it out. Instead he says, “You know, when I was a kid, I used to have nightmares.” Damian frowns at the non-sequitur, but nods at him to continue. “I couldn’t sleep because of them. When Bruce found me awake, he’d take me to get some hot chocolate, and then he’d let me sleep in his bed.”

“Okay,” Damian says, clearly not understanding.

“So what do you say the two of us go get some hot chocolate,” Dick offers. 

Damian hesitates, and then nods. Dick leads him downstairs and busies himself with preparing the hot chocolate while Damian takes a seat at a table. Finishing off with a hearty dollop of cream on top, Dick slides into a seat, passing a mug to Damian.

“It’s not as good as Alfred’s, but I like to think I make a pretty decent hot chocolate,” he says. Damian snorts.

“I doubt any of you could ever come close to Pennyworth’s skill level in the kitchen.”

Dick laughs. When Damian had first arrived at the manor, he’d had a habit of throwing his food at the walls– he’s glad the kid has changed his tune.

“No, probably not,” he agrees. “Jason’s a pretty good cook, though. Next time he comes, we should get him to make you something.”

“Maybe,” Damian says, non-committal. He sips at his hot chocolate and pulls a face. “Not terrible,” he comments.

“You sure? I can get you something else if you don’t like it.”

“Grayson, if I hated it, I would tell you. I am not one to spare another’s feelings.”

“No, you’re not, are you?” Dick smiles fondly at him, and Damian rolls his eyes. 

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he asks, “Were you aware that Todd knew my mother?”

“Um.” Dick blinked. “No, I wasn’t. How?”

“He didn’t say. He just recognised that I was her child.”

Dick frowns, attempting to do some math in his head. Jason hadn’t yet come to the manor around the time Bruce must have been with Talia, so he couldn’t have met her then. Maybe he’d met her after he’d died– they didn’t know nearly enough about Jason’s years away to say whether or not he had for certain.

“Well, there’s no point in worrying too hard about it,” Dick says, sipping at his drink. Damian hums noncommittally, and the two of them fall into a companionable silence.

As they’re finishing up their drinks, Damian suddenly asks, “Why are you doing this?”

“Huh?” Dick blinks. “Doing what?”

Damian gestures. “This. What my father used to do with you.”

“Oh, did you not like it? We don’t have to do it again if–”

“No.” Damian sighs, and seems to struggle over his words. “You know you are not– My father is dead. You do not have to–”

“Oh, Dami, no,” Dick says, sudden realisation dawning on him. “I’m not– I’m not trying to replace your father. I’ve been where you are. After my parents died, and Bruce adopted me, I didn’t want him to replace them either. I’m not trying to be your father. But I  _ am _ your brother, and you were having a bad night, and I thought this could help you, like it used to help me. I’m sorry if I overstepped anything.”

Damian considers him for a moment, then shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, this is… fine. Thank you, Grayson.”

Dick stands, gathering their cups and placing them in the sink. “Ready to head up to bed? You can come sleep in my room if you’d like, but no pressure or anything if you’d prefer your own space.”

“Why would I sleep in your room?”

Dick shrugs. “B used to let me sleep in his sometimes, when I felt scared. It helped.”

“How?”   
“It’s… hm. Knowing that there’s someone there who would protect you from anything bad makes it easier to relax and sleep, I think.”

Damian considers this in silence as they make their way through the manor’s winding halls and up the stairs. The thunderstorm is still raging outside, close enough that the thunder sounds like bombs dropping in the manor grounds. Damian startles every time he hears it, and Dick can’t help himself from flinching at a couple. 

“Okay, Dami,” Dick says, as they reach the top of the stairs– their rooms are on opposite sides of the landing. “Goodni–”

“I’ll do it,” Damian interrupts. “I’ll sleep in your room.”

Dick can’t quite hold back his smile. “Okay, then,” he says, beckoning the boy. “Come on.”

He leads the way into his room and to the bed, where he climbs into one side and beckons Damian towards the other. Damian hesitates before climbing in, but the bed’s large enough that the two of them can spread out without touching each other, and Damian seems to appreciate that as he pulls the covers up around him, his back to Dick as he curls up on his side. Dick reaches over to turn out the lamp and lies down. 

“Night, Dami,” he says softly.

“Goodnight, Grayson,” Damian replies. 

Dick lies in bed and watches his little brother breathe, counting the rise-and-falls of his chest until he himself drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a couple of people in the comments with questions/theories about jason; here are (some of) your answers!
> 
> trolls! the versions of trolls in this setting are different from the trolls in north child (the book i largely took inspiration from for this fic). they're typically indistinguishable from humans in appearance, though they live for much longer than most humans. they're reclusive and tend to avoid humans wherever possible, they're very connected to nature and magic, and they're afraid of lightning. most of these characteristics are pulled from scandinavian folklore!
> 
> if you liked this chapter/the fic in general, leave a comment! i've been responding to all of the comments on this fic, it's really fun to read y'alls thoughts!


	5. IV. The Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Lovers**  
>  Upright: love, relationships, choices  
> Reversed: disharmony, imbalance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this one is late! i've been having some (let's call them) health issues lately and they flared up badly yesterday. 
> 
> a heads up about future chapters: this is the last chapter i had fully finished, and while the next chapter is very close to being finished, i can't guarantee it'll be done by next weekend. if it is, you'll all see it then, but it might be a couple of weeks before it goes up. basically, updates are going to slow down while i finish the rest of the fic! (uni is picking up too, which means i'm going to have way less time to write.) but this fic WILL get finished, even if it takes a couple months! 
> 
> & with that out of the way, i hope you enjoy this chapter, because we're back on the angsty sibling fluff train!

_Found it!_

Tim fights back a grin as his fingers find the edge of a door in the stone wall beneath a tapestry, and he takes a moment to pry it open. Steph hovers excitedly behind him as he pulls it open fully and takes a step into the room beyond.

It looks to be a kitchen, large and homey with a big open fireplace, a fire blazing in its hearth. There are several rows of counters and cupboards, a large sink against one wall, and a myriad of pans, utensils, and plants hanging from a rack on the ceiling. One of the counters is covered in flour, a half-kneaded ball of bread dough sitting in the centre.

The room also isn’t empty: there’s a bald woman standing by the bread, coated in flour up to her elbows, eyes wide with panic at his sudden appearance.

“Um, hi!” Tim greets. She stares uncomprehendingly back. “I, um, I’ve been seeing you around, and I wanted to talk to you. I have some questions, you see, and I was wondering if you could answer them?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then she says something in a language Tim isn’t familiar with. It has an odd cadence, alternating between harsh, rasping sounds like stones scraping together, to soft, whispery things, reminiscent of the rushing of a river or the rustling of leaves. It’s a kind of language that sounds like it would be impossible to hear in a forest, easily mistaken for a myriad of other things.

“She’s a troll,” Steph says from behind him. 

Tim glances back at her, frowning. “How do you know that?” 

“Damian speaks troll sometimes. That’s what it sounds like.”

Tim frowns, because he’s pretty sure that he’s never heard Damian speak troll before. Maybe he’s muttered some insult under his breath that Tim picked up on subconsciously? It’s not totally beyond the realm of possibility, he supposes, though something feels off about it.

He glances back to the troll woman, who is looking at him with utter confusion. “I don’t suppose you speak English?” No response. “Uh, español? Gwóngdūng wá? русский язык?” Nothing. Tim sighs. “Guess we’re going to have to try charades.”

Steph laughs. “Oh, this’ll be fun to watch.” 

Tim shoots a glare at her as he steps further into the room.

“I,” he says pointing to himself, “want to ask you,” he points at the troll woman, “some questions,” he puts on an exaggerated confused expression, before miming talking. The woman’s expression goes from confused to bemused, and she says something Tim can’t understand. 

“Do you think she got the message?” he asks Steph. Steph snorts.

“I dunno, boy wonder, why don’t you ask her some questions and find out?”

Tim turns back to the troll woman and says, “Do you know who the bear is?” as he mimes exaggerated confusion, followed by raising his hands to his head to mime ears and bearing his teeth in a mock snarl.

“You look like you’re doing Caramelldansen,” Steph laughs from behind him. Tim ignores her, even as she begins to softly sing under her breath and do the familiar dance in his peripheral vision.

The troll woman looks like she’s laughing at him now, raising her own hands and baring her teeth in a mocking fashion. Tim sighs. “Bear? Who is he?” he asks again, not bothering with the charades this time. The woman almost looks like she understands him, and just shrugs back, before raising her hands, palms facing outwards and fingers upstretched, to the top of her head. Tim cocks his head in confusion, trying to figure out what it means.

“Is that… a crown?” he asks. The woman shrugs at him, and then points at her mouth and ear with a shake of her head in a gesture that he recognises as _I don’t understand you._

Tim sighs, and then tries, “Who sleeps in my bed at night?”, miming sleeping. The woman grins and waggles her eyebrows at him. Tim scowls, and the woman laughs. He raises his hands and bares his teeth again and asks, “Is it the bear?”

The woman shrugs, grinning wickedly, and then steps forward, pointing behind him. Tim frowns. “What?” he asks, turning back to look. He can’t see anything there. The woman walks over to him, and pushes him in the direction of the door, pointing even more intensely. Tim, tense now, walks over to the door, pushing the tapestry aside to reveal the empty room behind–

The woman shoves him sharply on the back, forcing him out of the room, and slams the door behind him. Tim glares back.

“Rude,” he mutters.

Steph, now sitting on the dining room table, just grins at him. “You _were_ bothering her at work, dummy.” She slides down and walks over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder that he thinks is supposed to be comforting but comes across as patronising more than anything. “But hey! We learned things.”

“We didn’t learn anything about the bear or my visitor.”

“Well, no,” Steph says, “but we learned the servants are trolls.”

Tim blinks. “Hey, you’re right.” And now his mind is putting pieces together. “Don’t trolls live in isolated mountains like this?”

“Yeah, and they do weird magic shit,” Steph says. 

“This has something to do with Damian,” Tim says. 

Steph frowns. “Huh?”

“I mean, is it coincidence that he comes into our lives and then a bear takes me away to a troll palace?”

Steph shrugs. “I mean, maybe?”

“This could be part of his grandfather’s revenge.”

“I don’t think so,” Steph protests. “He already killed Bruce; what does he gain from kidnapping you and locking you up here for a year? It doesn’t make any sense.” 

And– she has a point there. Tim sighs, deflating. “I just don’t know what else it could be.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Steph tells him. “You’re the manor’s resident mystery-solver, and I watch all those crime dramas, so between the two of us, we’re sure to figure something out.”

Tim laughs. “I don’t think _Criminal Minds_ is gonna help you figure out a magical mystery.”

“Oh, Tim, how you underestimate me.” Steph fakes disappointment. “You just haven’t learned the triumphs and defeats, the epic highs and lows of crime drama television.”

Tim blinks at her. “Did you– did you just quote _Riverdale_ at me?” Steph smiles wickedly. “No, wait, Steph, are you– are you taking your mystery-solving pointers from _Riverdale_?” 

Steph’s grin is wide and sharklike as she turns and walks from the room. Tim, clammy with horror, hurries after her.

“Wait, Steph! Please tell me you’re messing with me!”

Her answering cackle echoes around the stone walls of the mountain.

* * *

Tim’s been lying in bed for what he thinks is several hours, drifting in and out of unrestful sleep as he stares up at the stone ceiling, absentmindedly trying to find patterns in the flickering of candlelight across it. His eyes feel like dry shards of glass digging into his brain, his thoughts are slow and sluggish, and his entire body aches. The blanket on top of him is heavy and warm and he doesn’t want to move today.

He hears the door to his room creak open and groans. Doesn’t move as soft pawsteps pad across the room. It’s only when he feels the bear lay its head on the bed does he move, rolling onto his side to see the bear, muzzle pressed against the sheets, looking at him with big, sad eyes.

“Stop that,” he mutters.

The bear lets out a huff, warm breath ruffling the sheets. Tim pushes his arm out from beneath the covers and pokes the bear gently on the nose.

“ _Stop_ ,” he instructs. The bear, ignoring him, grabs the covers with its teeth and pulls them away, leaving Tim’s upper half exposed. Tim glares, and attempts to grab the blankets back, but the bear doesn’t let go even as Tim tugs at them. “This is unfair,” he complains, flopping back down against the pillows.

The bear drops the blankets, saying, in that pained, halting voice of its, “Need to get up.”

“Don’t wanna,” Tim mumbles. “I just want to sleep. I’m so tired.”

“Up,” the bear repeats. “Need to eat.”

Tim makes an attempt to grab the blankets again and, not succeeding, decides to just roll over and turn his back to the bear instead. “Not hungry,” he replies. “Maybe later.”

The air of the room is colder than under the blankets, but it’s not _that_ cold. His eyes flutter closed. He hears the bear sigh, laying its head on the bed to stare at him again. He’s just about to drift off again when the bear speaks.

“Would you like to go home?”

Tim’s eyes snap open, and he slowly rolls back over to look at the bear. “What?”

“You could. Go home.” The bear looks even more pained than usual. 

“For how long?” Tim asks. “You said I had to stay here for a year, are you giving up on that?”

The bear shakes its head. “A visit,” it says. “A week.”

“A week,” Tim echoes. He thinks about seeing his family for a week, and then having to walk away from them all over again. It would hurt all of them. But… 

A week. A week away from this cavernous castle, away from empty halls and lonely days, away from the mysteries and the worries and the bone-deep tiredness. A week to feel something akin to normal again.

He could do it, he thinks. He could take the leaving, if he could have the week.  
“Okay,” he agrees, voice soft. “Okay. That’s okay? I can go?”

He can see the pain and misery in the bear’s eyes as it nods. “One week.” It lets out a breath. “Eat, first.”

Tim still doesn’t really want to move. The thought of food makes him feel distinctly ill. But if eating is all he has to do to get to see his family again, for the first time in months? Tim sits up and pulls himself out of bed, placing a hand on the bear’s back to steady himself as he stumbles on unsteady legs. The bear waits for him to regain his balance, and then begins to walk; Tim follows it down to the dining room where the usual feast of foods is waiting.

Suddenly overcome by emotion, Tim throws himself at the bear before he can think better of it, wrapping his arms around its neck and squeezing. “Thank you,” he mumbles into the bear’s fur. He feels the bear stiffen beneath him, and then relax, placing its muzzle on Tim’s shoulder. 

It doesn’t speak, but it doesn’t need to. Tim understands.

* * *

They’re about an hour out from the leylines– Tim recognises this place, not just from when he’d left with the bear, but from some of his excursions with Bruce– when the bear stops. Tim wonders if this is another food break, like the one they took last time, but when he dismounts, the bear just looks at him contemplatively. 

“Your older brother,” it says, at long last. 

Tim blinks. “Dick?”

The bear nods. “Do not… speak to him alone.”

Tim frowns. “What? Why not?”

The bear shakes its head, refusing to elaborate. “Careful,” is all it says, before gesturing for Tim to climb on its back again. Tim stands there for a moment, unsure of what to make of this, before doing so.

* * *

Nervousness begins to brew in Tim’s stomach as he sees the leyline crossing up ahead. He tries to tell the bear to stop, to turn around, but the words get stuck in his throat. _I’m making a mistake_ , he thinks, fists tightening in the bear’s fur. Would they even be happy to see him? Or worse, would they be _too_ happy to see him, and refuse to let him leave again? What if– 

“Relax,” the bear rumbles from beneath him. Tim, startled, does so, allowing the tension to leak out of his shoulders and loosening his grip. 

And then they’ve passed through the portal, and it’s too late to turn back, the manor towering above them on the hilltop. 

The bear comes to a stop a few feet away from the leylines, and allows Tim to climb off of his back. It gestures up towards the manor. “Go alone,” it rumbles. “Meet back here. One week.”

Tim nods. “One week,” he promises. He hesitates, feeling like he should say something more, but nothing comes to mind. “See you later,” he says at last, waving before turning towards the manor and starting to walk. As he crests the top of the hill, he glances back, only to find that the bear has gone.

He takes a deep breath. _No losing courage now, Tim._ He skirts around to the front of the manor, feeling strangely like a guest in his own home as he rings the bell by the front door.

He stands and shuffles awkwardly for a couple of minutes before the door opens, and now he’s standing there staring up at Alfred.

“Hi, Alfred,” he greets, sheepish. 

“Master Tim!” Alfred greets, staring for a second before ushering him inside. “The rest of the family are in the den, watching a film,” he informs Tim. “Do you want to see them straight away, or would you like to do something else first?”

Tim hesitates for a second before saying, “I wouldn’t mind a hug, if you’ve got one.”

Alfed’s face goes warm in that way he does where he’s smiling-without-smiling. “Of course, Sir,” he says, pulling Tim into a hug. Tim squeezes the old butler gratefully, before extracting himself and turning towards the den. 

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” Alfred tells him. 

Tim nods. “Thanks, Alfred.”

Tim takes his time walking up towards the den, looking around, trying to take everything in. Being here, in the manor– it doesn’t feel real. It feels _too_ real. Either he’s dreaming right now or the last several months have been a dream, and he can’t figure out which. He focuses on the small details, the way the light streams in through the windows, the exact angle of the vase on that pedestal, the ornery of the portrait frames, tries to commit it all to memory, all too aware that this moment will soon _be_ a memory, and slip away like all of the others.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the sound of familiar laughter echoing from up ahead. He picks up his pace, ghosting across the manor floor to the door to the den. It’s been left open, but no one notices his approach as he stands there, drinking in the sight of his family.

Dick is sitting on one side of the couch, Duke leaning up against his shoulder. Harper sits cross-legged in the centre of the couch, a tray on her lap filled with what looks like a phone that she’s taking apart, eyes flickering from her task to the screen. Cullen sits against the other couch-arm, braiding Steph’s hair, who’s sat in front of him with her eyes glued to the screen. Tim’s heart leaps to see Cass lying next to her, her head in Steph’s lap as Steph runs her hands through her short hair.

On the other side of the room, Damian sits alone in an armchair, knees hugged close to his chest, frowning intently at the screen.

They’re watching _Spiderman_ , he realises belatedly.

He should say something, he knows, make his presence known, but he just stands there, watching them all, something warm and sharp digging into his chest, his voice stuck in his throat. 

The movie is winding to a close when Harper pushes her tray to the side, stretches, and stands up. She turns towards the door, and then freezes, staring. Tim meets her eyes, feeling like a deer in the headlights as he raises a hand and waves.

_“Tim?”_ she hisses, voice thick with disbelief, and suddenly everyone is moving: Dick’s head whips around as Duke startles, Steph is on her feet in an instant, Cass a half-second behind her. Cullen scrambles to look over the back of the sofa, while Damian turns his gaze away from the screen, wide-eyed.

“Um,” Tim says, heart pounding, “Hi.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then Dick vaults over the couch and grabs Tim in a fierce hug that knocks the breath out of him.

“You’re _home_ ,” Dick whispers, and Tim chokes. 

“You’re squishing me,” he mumbles. It takes another moment before Dick lets him go, but all that means is that the rest of his siblings get the chance to pile on him. 

“You’re home!”

“Are you okay?!”

“Where were you?”

“Did that bear hurt you-?”

“Calm down,” Cass interjects, her voice soft but firm and authoritative, and the others immediately back off. Tim shoots her a grateful smile. “Glad you’re home,” she tells him. 

“Thanks, Cass. I’m glad to be home.”

“God, Tim, so much has happened, we have so much to tell you!” Dick says.

“And I’m sure you must have a lot to tell us, huh?” Duke asks. 

“Why don’t we go to the conservatory?” Steph suggests. “I’ll get Alfred to bring us some lemonade, we can all fill each other in.”

“Good idea, Steph,” Dick says. “Come on, let’s go.”  
And that’s how Tim finds himself in the conservatory, surrounded by his siblings, sipping on lemonade and listening to them all chatter excitedly and fill him in on what he’s missed.

“Jason? Like, _Jason_ Jason?” 

“Do you know of any _other_ Jasons we could be talking about?” 

“No, but I just– Seriously? He’s alive?”

“Yeah, crazy, right?”

“Is he here? Can I meet him?”

“He lives on the other side of the lines, but he said he’d come back to visit at some point!”

Tim slumps. “Man, I can’t believe I missed him.”

“He’ll be back! You can meet him then,” Dick says, smiling. 

“I doubt he’ll be back before I have to go, though.”

Dick’s smile drops. “Go?”

“I’m only here for– This is a visit. I can’t stay.”

“For how long?” Duke asks. 

“A week.”

“What? Tim, you can’t just–” Tim cuts Dick off.

“I _have_ to. And I’m not arguing with you about it. I just… I want this week to be good.”

The room falls silent, and then Dick sighs, reaching out to place a hand on Tim’s arm. “ _Okay_. Okay.” 

Tim nods. “Okay.”

“So… Where _have_ you been?” Harper asks, breaking the tension. “What’ve you been doing? What does the bear want?”

“The bear,” Tim says, pausing slightly for dramatic effect as his siblings all lean in, “wants me to live in its house.”

“It… what?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. It lives in some… castle inside a mountain? And I just need to live there for a year, and then I can come home.”

“So you _are_ coming home?” Dick asks, relief palpable in his voice. 

Tim frowns.

“Of course I am, did you think– Oh! Of course, you don’t know, I didn’t think. Yeah, I’m coming home when all this is over. Just… How long has it been? How many more months?”

“It’s been almost seven months,” Cullen says. Tim nods.

“So, just five more. And then I’m home, for good.”

“And for now, we have a week.” Dick grins. “We’d better make it a good one then, hadn’t we?”

* * *

The rest of Tim’s first day is filled with motion and chatter and excitement as his siblings drag him from one place to another, showing him things that are new and different and changed and filling him in on all the things he’s missed and by the end of it he’s exhausted. 

He can’t deny that he’s happy to be home, though. Just being here, surrounded by people, being spoken to and interacted with, he feels more real than he has in months. And seeing them all so happy, despite the lingering grief he sees in all of their eyes, it means that it’s working. This plan, this agreement between him and the bear– good fortune has come. Is coming. Will come. _The lost returned._ Jason, Cass… 

Five months left. Bruce has to come back. He _has_ to.

He flops down on his bed, breathing in the scent of freshly-laundered sheets. It occurs to him that this will be the first night in _seven months_ where he’ll have a bed to himself.

It’s a weird thought. He’s not sure how to feel about it.

A soft knock on the door echoes through the room. “Tim?” Steph calls out. “Can I come in?”

Tim considers it for a minute. What he really wants to do is curl up beneath the covers and go to sleep, but, well, it’s just Steph. 

“Sure,” he replies. Moments later, she sits down on the bed, nervously playing with the hem of her shirt. He frowns. “Is something wrong?”

“I, uh. Um. _Itwasn’tahallucination_.” 

“I– What?”

“Back there. In the mountain. It wasn’t a hallucination, it was really me.”

Tim stares. Because that can’t be right, but he hadn’t mentioned the hallucination Steph to anyone, so how could she know? “Steph– What– _How?”_ he stammers out. 

“Magic?”

“Magic doesn’t work in the mountain. The communicators won’t work. How could you–”

“I. Um. I may have made a deal?”

Tim’s heart pounds. “Made a deal with _what_ , Steph?” 

“Oh, you know, some eldritch-demon-thing living in the caves beneath the manor. No big deal.”

_“Steph.”_

“It’s fine, Tim, honestly!”

“Steph, that’s– that’s dark magic! What were you _thinking?”_

“Honestly?” Steph shrugs. “I kind of wasn’t. It just… happened.”

“It just happened,” Tim echoes, disbelieving. 

“I was out in the grounds when I fell down some hidden well… hole… thing? And I ended up in the caves, and I figured, like, this may as well happen, you know? So I started wandering around down there, and that’s when I found it.”

“It?”

“It was like… Okay. So there’s this kind of… dark stain on the wall? Like a painting. Or like something’s been burnt into it. And I was looking up at it like huh, that’s kind of cool, when it started… speaking to me. Not the thing on the wall, but… whatever was behind it. Whatever it’s a symbol of. And it wasn’t really speaking; it was just… concepts. Intention.”

“Oh my _God_ , Steph.” 

“And, uhh, I didn’t exactly get all the details? Because, you know, spooky eldritch cave demon language. But I got cool magic! And in exchange I have to go on some kind of quest at some point. It’ll let me know.”

“ _Stephanie_.” 

“Ooh, breaking out the full name. That’s how I _know_ I’m in trouble.”

“You know how bad this is, right? Like, you’re aware?” 

“Of _course_ I’m aware, Tim!” Steph hisses back. “I know this is like, really, really bad. But– look. I’m just trying to look on the bright side of this situation, because there’s no point worrying about something I have no control over.”

“Does anyone else know about this?”

“Just Cass.”

“You should tell Barbara.”

“Are you kidding? She’d kill me. And then the demon I’ve sold my soul to would drag me down to hell as punishment for breaking my side of the deal.” At Tim’s expression, she holds up her hands. “Joke! That was a joke.”

“A bad one.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got _that_.” 

Tim sighs. Runs his hand through his hair. 

Steph frowns at him nervously.“You… okay?”

“Yeah, I just… That was a lot to take in. And now I’m re-evaluating every interaction we’ve had for the past two months.”

Steph grins. “Yeah, you were pretty set on your hallucination theory, and I didn’t think you’d believe me if I told you otherwise.”

“No, I probably wouldn’t have done,” Tim admits. “I, uh. So you know some things–”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” Steph promises. 

Tim finds himself relaxing. “Thank you.”

“No problem. And you’re not going to tell anyone about, uh, my whole thing, are you?”

Tim shakes his head. “I should. But I won’t.”

“Hey.” Steph grins, poking at his side. “When you think about it, me making a deal with some kind of eldritch demon isn’t too different from you running off with a mysterious, magical bear you know nothing about.”

“It’s completely different.”

“Not really. Think about it a little.” 

Tim thinks about it, then sighs.

“I can see your point,” he admits, more than a little begrudgingly. 

“Exactly! So, hey. Bad decisions squad.”

She holds out a fist towards him, waggling her eyebrows. Tim rolls his eyes, but bumps it anyway. 

* * *

Tim wakes up from a nap to the sensation of something small, warm, and rumbling on his chest, and the sound of giggles and whispers in the background. He squints his eyes open and takes in the creature sleeping on top of him.

“What is that?” he asks, voice low so as not to disturb it.

“It’s Damian’s cat,” Cullen replies.

“Damian has a cat,” Tim says.

“Yup.”

“His name is Alfred,” Steph chimes in helpfully.

“Damian has a cat and named it after Alfred?”

“He sure does!”

“Last time I was here, Damian was still throwing Alfred’s food at the walls.”

“He’s a lot better now,” Cullen says. “Dick somehow managed to unlock all of the Damian cheat codes, and he’s become, like, seventy percent less murderous.”

“And he has a cat,” Tim says, “named _Alfred_.”

“You alright there, Tim?” Steph asks, sounding a little concerned.

Tim doesn’t know how to put what he’s feeling into words, so instead he says, “Do you not get confused? Having two Alfreds around the house?”

“You can usually figure it out by context.” Cullen sits down next him and begins running a hand down the cat’s back. Cat-Alfred’s eyes flicker open and then close again, and his purring increases in intensity. He is _very_ cute, Tim’s got to admit. 

“I need to get up,” he says.

“Sorry, Tim,” Steph says, crouching to join Cullen in petting Alfred. “You’re stuck there.”

“Can’t upset a cat,” Cullen agrees.

“Guys, I gotta pee.”

“Well, you’re fresh out of luck there.”

“I can get you a bottle?”

“I hate you both,” Tim mutters. He flails his arms. “Help me.”

Steph lets out a put-upon sigh. “ _Fine_ ,” she says, “But only because I don’t want to explain to Alfred– butler-Alfred– why there’s piss all over the couch.” 

She bends down and scoops the cat into her arms. Alfred lets out a small mewl, twisting around and blinking his eyes open. Steph lifts him up and places a kiss atop his head, before letting him down to the ground. He turns to Tim and gives him a hurt look as Tim pushes himself from the couch. Tim scowls.

“I’m not your bed, cat.”

Alfred just lets out a long, sad meow.

“I can’t believe you’ve done this,” Cullen says. “Look at him. Look at his little face. You _monster_.” 

Tim rolls his eyes, but he does feel bad. He stalks away to the bathroom without another word and on his way back he swings by the kitchen. It’s empty, Alfred presumably attending to something elsewhere in the manor, so he makes a beeline for the pantry and rummages around until he finds what he’s looking for.

He returns to the living room to find that Steph and Cullen are still there, playing with cat-Alfred with a piece of string. They pause as he enters and stoops down beside the cat, who watches him reproachfully. Tim stretches out his hand, revealing the handful of cat treats he’s holding, and after a moment of carefully sniffing his fingers, Alfred dips his head and begins to eat out of Tim’s palm. Once he’s finished, he sits back and licks his lips, purring, before leaning forward and rubbing his head on Tim’s hand. Tim begins to pet him, and the cat lights up.

“Am I forgiven?” he asks.

“That was the cutest shit I’ve ever seen,” Steph whispers in the background. Tim flips her off, and grins as she laughs, scratching under Alfred’s chin.

* * *

“I need you to drive me somewhere,” Harper says, appearing in the doorway. Tim blinks.

“Uh.”

And then she’s grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the card game he was playing with Cass. Cass, for her part, seems unperturbed, just collects the cards and puts them back in the box.

“C’mon, Cassie, you can come too,” Harper says. Cass gets to her feet and follows. Tim gives up on trying to regain any control over this situation and allows himself to be dragged to the garage. Harper picks the car, and despite her whole reasoning behind grabbing Tim being getting him to drive her, it’s Cass who gets into the driver’s seat. Harper, of course, takes shotgun, and Tim crawls into the backseat.

“Where are we going?” he asks as they pull out onto the manor’s long driveway.

“You’ll see,” Harper replies.

And Tim does see, as they pull up in the parking lot half an hour later.

“This is… the mall.”

“Yup.”

“Why are we at the mall?”

“Uh, ‘cause I wanted to go to the mall?” Harper says, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, Tim, get with the program.”

Tim isn’t even sure what channel she’s on, but he follows her and Cass into the mall anyway. 

He lets his sisters drag him into various stores. They get milkshakes (chocolate for Tim, strawberry for Cass, and blueberry for Harper), wander through aisles of books, try and pick out the most disgusting outfits for each other. They go to Claire’s and play a game of ‘ _see how many accessories you can put on before the staff kick you out’_ , which Cass wins, somehow managing to stay under-the-radar even while wearing a wig, two flower crowns, a pair of cat ears, and three pairs of sunglasses. By the time they end up in the arcade, Tim’s face hurts from grinning, and he feels breathless with laughter.

Cass leaves them with her bags to go to the bathroom, and Harper and Tim end up frantically hammering buttons on an old Street Fighter machine, muttering pleas and insults under their breaths and yelling in triumph or defeat at the end of each round.

“So,” he says, as they begin another round, “How come you dragged me out here today?”

Harper rolls her eyes. “ _Because_ , Tim, we haven’t seen you in months. And… I’m worried about you. Even before you left, you were… in a bad place, I think. Everything kind of sucked back then. You’ve been sleeping a lot and zoning out a lot since you got back, and you’ve been, like, _alone_ for _months_ , and… I’m worried about you. So I wanted us to just have a nice day, doing nice normal teen things. Go to the mall, play some games, not just sitting around in some manor miles away from anything and thinking about magic and fairytales.”

“Oh.” Tim blinks. His fingers slip, and Harper takes the advantage to take his last life, but he barely cares as the _GAME OVER_ sign flashes on screen. Harper crows in victory, but then goes quiet, frowning as she turns to look at him.

“Tim? Are you okay?”

Tim blinks, hard, and takes a deep breath. “I’m– Fine. I’m fine.”

“Tim?” A hand on his arm. “Hey, Tim, c’mon, you’re alright.”

And he _is_ alright, he just– _ugh_ . He blinks, looks down at Harper’s worried expression, offers a smile. “I’m fine, Harper, sorry, I just…” He shakes his head. “I didn’t realise I was worrying you.” _I didn’t realise I was doing so bad._ And, like, logically, he knows he hasn’t been doing great– losing track of time, dissociating, the exhaustion; hell, he’d thought he’d been hallucinating for a while there– but knowing it and being confronted about it are two very different things.

Harper still looks concerned, so he steps forward and envelops her in a hug. “Thanks, Harper,” he says. “You’re the best.”  
She snorts into his shoulder. “I try.”

“And seriously, thank you for today. You were right, I think, I needed it.” He pulls back, and she watches him carefully, eyes sharp.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I feel a lot better.” And when he grins at her, it’s genuine. Slowly, she smiles back.

A small cough alerts them to Cass’ presence. She gives them both a knowing look, and then gestures to the machine behind her. “Dance?” she asks. 

Harper and Tim share a glance, and nod in unison. Cass thrashes them both at DDR, but they’re all having too much fun to care.

* * *

He ends up curling up with Cass in front of the library fireplace one night, lying his head against her flank. Arm stretched up to scratch her behind the ear, he says, “I think the bear who took me might be like you.”  
Her eyes slide open, clever and calculating as she studies his face. “Human?” she asks, in that stilted, somewhat pained way bears speak human language. He nods.

“Yeah. I… I’m going to tell you something, okay, and you have to promise not to tell anyone else.”

Tim feels more than hears her hum, a rumbling against his back. “Secret,” she promises.

“Every night after I’ve gone to bed and all the lights go out, someone gets into my bed and sleeps on the other side.” He feels her stiffen beneath him. “They don’t hurt me! Whoever they are has only ever touched me twice, and once was after a nightmare– they just wanted a hug.” She relaxes slightly, but he can see the alarm in her gaze. “And I think it might be the bear, shedding its skin at night.”  
Cass hums again. “Curse,” she says. “Sleep a year beside… Go free.”

Tim blinks. “You might be onto something there, Cassie.”

She gives him a look that says _of course I’m onto something_ , and Tim grins sheepishly back. 

“Break curse,” she tells him, lifting a paw and pushing it gently against his chest.

“I will,” he says. Then, curious, he asks, “Would you give it up, if you could? Being a bear?”

Cass hums again, tilts her head. “Nighttime is not bad,” she says eventually. “But… I miss.”

Tim nods, running a hand through her fur. “I wonder a lot,” he says. “About the bear. Who it is.” 

“Theories?”

“Steph thinks I’m reading too much into things.”

“You?”

“I think… God, I sound crazy, but Cass, I think it might be _Bruce_.”

“Explain.”

“Well. I just. The timing’s a bit suspicious, right? Bruce is killed by trolls, and a month later, this bear shows up and takes me to a castle in a mountain tended to by troll servants. _What was lost will be found_. I… I don’t know. It’s not a lot, but…”

“You want him to be alive.” Cass’ voice is soft.

“I don’t know what a world where he isn’t alive _looks_ like, Cass. How does this all work– how do we exist– without him?”

“Haven’t been here,” she reminds him. And– yeah, Tim’s seen it, throughout the week, the new normal, the way their family dynamics have shifted and changed and accounted for the missing person. How they’ve all come together to fill the space that Bruce had left behind.

Fill the space that _Tim_ had left behind, too. 

And sometimes, now, looking at them– at the way his siblings chatter over dinner, the way Duke helps Cullen with his homework, the way Steph makes Damian smoothies in the afternoons, the way Dick makes Bruce’s nightly rounds and checks everyone’s okay before going to sleep– he wonders if there’ll still be space for him, when he comes back. If there’ll be space for Bruce, if he comes back. How much of what’s been built without them will have to break for them to return?

A smaller, self-deprecating part of him whispers, _Will they even want you back? Are you worth breaking everything good they’ve made without you?_ And he tries his best to ignore it, because he knows the answer is _No_. 

“Stop that,” Cass growls, batting him gently with a paw. “Love you.”

Tim sighs. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

She pulls him closer against her. “Little brother,” she says. “Wanted. Loved.”

And Tim does know, but he still wonders. Is it enough? Is _he_ enough?

He pushes the thoughts and insecurities out of his mind, burying his face in Cass’ fur instead. “What do you think?” he asks. “Could it be him? Or am I just…” _Crazy,_ he thinks but doesn’t say.

Cass doesn’t reply for a long time. “Break curse,” she says at last. “Find out.”

* * *

Tim and Duke are binging a new Netflix show that came out while Tim was in the mountain, and that Duke insisted, “Is right up your alley. Seriously, we have to watch it,” when Tim senses someone watching him. He turns around, craning his neck up to see Damian perched in the rafters, gazing down at them intently.

“Um.”

Duke follows Tim’s gaze and smiles fondly, grabbing at Tim’s shoulder to turn him back towards the screen. “He’s just watching the show, dude. Let him be.”  
And Tim does, because apparently everybody else got the memo on how to interact with Damian without ending up injured, but he can still feel the kid’s gaze on him, boring into the back of his head. It’s not until Duke gets up between episodes to go on a bathroom-and-more-popcorn run that Tim addresses it.

“So are you just going to sit there and stare at me, or…?” 

The kid clicks his tongue, sounding irritated. “Grayson,” he says, words sounding pointed and careful, “Spoke to me about some things.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he said that I ought to apologise to you.”

Tim scowls. “Do you even know what you’re apologising to me for?”

“For responding to you violently and for treating you cruelly when you arrived.”

Tim nods, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. “And do you actually feel sorry? Or are you just apologising because Dick told you to?” Another annoyed _tt_ , and Tim feels vindicated. “If you’re going to apologise to me kid, I’d prefer it if you actually meant it.”

He stands and makes his way towards the door, bumping into Duke as he returns with the popcorn. Duke takes in his stormy expression and takes a small step to the side. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“Ask the kid,” Tim mutters, walking past him and out into the hall. 

He hears Duke behind him sigh and call out to Damian, “What did you _do?”_

He feels bad about walking out on Duke, actually. When he gets back to his room, he types out a quick apology text and follows it up with, _Keep watching in my room? I really was enjoying it._

Duke takes a couple of minutes to reply. _Yeah, no worries. I’m on my way._

It’s not the first time Tim has been overwhelmed with gratitude for Duke and his easy-going attitude. 

* * *

Tim is helping Dick and Babs reorganise the library (somehow it's gotten all messed up– nobody’s come forward to claim it as a prank, so Tim’s current working theory is that some of his siblings got into a fight in the library, trashed the place, and then hurriedly cleared it up and swore each other to secrecy) when Cass, Steph, and Cullen appear in the doorway and remind Babs that the four of them have plans. Babs shoots an apologetic look at Dick, but Dick waves her off.

“No, go ahead,” he says, grinning. “Tim and I can finish up here. Right, Tim?”

“Uh, right,” Tim says, trying to hide how much he’s panicking at the idea. _Do not speak to him alone_ , the bear had said. Tim still isn’t sure exactly _why_ , but something about the bear’s tone makes him wary. 

Babs leaves, and Tim fidgets as he shelves books, trying to think of excuses to leave, when Dick says, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

_Crap_. “Uh, no, I haven’t?”

“ _Tim_.” Dick sighs. “I’m sorry if I upset you, before you left. I know things were… not great. But I don’t want things to always be not great between us. So if something’s bothering you, please just tell me. I want to fix things.”

Tim sighs. “You didn’t do anything, Dick.”

“Tim–”

“No, seriously, you’re fine. _We’re_ fine. It’s just…” He sighs again. “The bear told me not to speak to you alone.”

Dick stiffens. “Tim, you know how worrying that is, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You probably should have spoken to me the moment you got here!”

“Dick…”

“Sorry. I just-- I’m worried. Any idea why it said that?”

“I…” Tim hesitates. “Okay, promise you won’t freak out.”

“Tim, that just makes me think that I _should_ be freaking out.” 

To Dick’s credit, he does a good job of not interrupting Tim as Tim lays out the situation with his nighttime visitor, though Tim can tell by his wide eyes and twitching hands that he desperately wants to. When Tim’s finished, he sits for a moment and just breathes, before finally saying, “So, I’m officially concerned.”

Tim can’t help but laugh at that. “I think we both know you’ve been concerned for a lot longer.”

“Well, yes, but now it’s, like, acute concern. I am very worried about you.”

“They don’t want to hurt me.”

“You don’t _know_ that. You don’t know anything about this situation. I don’t like it.”

“I’m not a big fan either, but there’s nothing I can really _do_ about it.” 

Dick hesitates, then says, “Maybe there is.” He puts down the book he’s holding and gestures for Tim to follow him; hesitantly, Tim does. Dick leads him through the door into the study and then heads to the portrait that hides the safe where Bruce keeps– kept– a large portion of their stash of adventuring supplies and magical items.

Tim stands awkwardly as Dick rummages through the hoard, muttering under his breath, before pulling out a lighter and handing it to Tim. 

Tim frowns at him. “I told you, you can’t light anything after lights out–”

“I know. This is a magic lighter, though.”

“It is?” Tim looks down at it. It’s just a plain metal lighter, slightly scuffed. Dick nods.

“It can be lit wherever you are. Underwater, magical darkness, you name it, this’ll break it. It’s not very bright, but it should be enough. You can use it– get a good look at this stranger– and if you don’t like what you see, come home. We’ve already had enough good fortune for the year, and we could all really use our brother back.”

Tim swallows the lump that’s formed in his throat. “I…” He blinks hard. “Thank you.”

Dick pulls him into a hug. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me,” he says. “I was worried, you know.”

“I know,” Tim agrees. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. But… You’ve done a really good job, Dick. You had big shoes to fill, and from the looks of things, you’ve filled them.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Dick confesses, breaking the embrace. “Babs and Alfred helped a lot. But… Things have been a lot better.”

“I’m proud of you,” Tim offers. “And, for what it’s worth, I think he’d be proud of you too.”

Dick’s face crumples at that, and then Tim’s in his arms again, being crushed against his chest. “You really think so?” he asks. 

Tim nods, a little breathless. “Yeah, I really do.”

“Thanks, Tim. _Thank you_.” 

And Tim wraps his arms around his brother’s chest and feels a pang in his own as he realises that he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay here with his family. He wants to play video games and watch TV and go to the mall and help around the house. He wants to be held and hugged and teased and _laugh_ , wants it so badly it hurts.

But he made a promise. He has to go back to the mountain castle, to empty halls and lonely days and dead-end mysteries and the projection of Steph and feeling like a ghost. And besides, he’s not willing to walk away from all of this, not until he knows for sure what’s going on. But the homesickness is tugging on his heart, and he hasn’t even left yet.

So he swallows back tears and hugs his brother and hopes that he can live in this moment forever, and that morning will never come.

* * *

Morning does come. Tears flow over breakfast. Tim gives and receives hugs from all of his siblings except, of course, Damian, who doesn’t come to the door to see him off, instead disappearing upstairs. 

“Got everything?” Dick asks as they hug goodbye. Recognising what he’s actually asking, Tim nods.

“Yeah, got it.” 

He does actually have more that he’s taking back to the castle with him– specifically his old skateboard, because he needs more ways to pass the time, and walking through empty hallways is awfully monotonous. He’s also got a bag full of books from the library, because he’s read all of the English ones in the castle’s library, and a handful of photographs of things from around the manor and it’s grounds, along with some of his family.

When Steph hugs him, she whispers, “See you later!” brightly in his ear, and Tim makes a mental note to look out for her once he gets back to the castle.

“Break the curse,” Cass whispers.

“Just… have fun, okay?” Harper tells him.

And once Tim has embraced them all half a dozen times, he’s turning and walking down the hill to a backing soundtrack of well-wishes and farewells. His back turned, Tim finally lets himself cry. The bear is waiting for him in the exact same spot it had dropped him off. 

“Sad,” it rumbles, seeing Tim’s tears. Tim reaches up and wipes them away, smiling at the bear.

“Goodbyes are hard,” he replies. “But I’m ready to go.”

The bear nods. Then, hesitantly, it asks, “Your oldest brother…”

“I didn’t talk to him alone,” Tim promises, even as he feels awful for lying, and the lighter burns in his pocket. The bear scans his face, and then nods again, seemingly believing him as it stoops for him to climb atop his back.

Tim does, and then they’re off and through the portal, leaving the manor behind once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the art in this chapter is by the amazing hal @succelents-and-fairy-lights ! their blog is linked in the first chapter notes, go give them a follow


	6. v. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Tower**  
>  Upright: sudden change, upheaval, chaos, revelation   
> Reversed: personal transformation, fear of change, averting disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's me! i'm back! i was able to finish off the last bit of this chapter this week, so here it is! the next chapter will probably have a longer wait, because i haven't even started it and i have an essay due soon that i really need to work on. this is also the section of the fic where i've kind of strayed from my outline a bit-- it'll come back round in the end, but this chapter and the next are significantly different from what i'd originally planned (a change that works for the better, i hope!)
> 
> this is also the first chapter completed post the bang ending, so it hasn't been beta'd like the others! i've done a cursory edit, but if i've missed any glaring errors, feel free to let me know in the comments.
> 
> in the meantime, i hope you enjoy this chapter! here're the answers you've all been waiting for. warning for brief suicidal ideation that is not acted on.

Tim can’t see anything, but that’s not unusual: the darkness in his room following lights out is always impenetrable. Right now, though, it feels suffocating, weighing down on his chest so that he has to strain to be able to breathe. 

Then he realises that there’s actually something large and heavy on his chest, pressing down, and he tries to wriggle out from underneath it but whatever it is is pinning him in place. He flails, panicking, and feels hands move from his arms to his neck, to his face, pushing down, suffocating him–

And then he’s sitting up, gasping, a scream burning in the back of his throat that he can’t release because he can’t  _ breathe _ , and there are hands on him, pulling him into a broad chest, and soft shushing noises fill the air, but he can’t, he can’t–

“Stop– don’t–” he’s pushing on the arms, and they release him, and he’s scrambling away and then he’s falling, hitting the ground hard, gasping as pain explodes in his shoulder. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, get away from me.” He’s babbling, he knows, but he can’t stop.

It’s too dark to see, but he can almost feel his nighttime visitor hesitate, before hearing the sounds of shuffling as they move to the other side of the bed. Tim lies on the ground where he fell, sucking in air until his heart stops pounding and his breathing returns to normal, feeling the pain in his jolted shoulder fade to a dull pulse. He swallows hard.

He should get back into bed, he knows, but the idea of lying next to the stranger makes his skin crawl. Outside of the comfort of the covers, his room is chilly (things tend to be cold when every wall, floor, and ceiling are made of stone) and the cold has him shivering, but even the discomfort isn’t enough to combat the unease that he feels.

He’s been having these nightmares ever since he came back from his trip home. During the day, it’s been fine– he spends time with Steph, reads to the bear from the books he’d brought from the manor, and skateboards through the halls, much to the troll-servants consternation (he’s even had a few charades-conversations with the bald woman after he’s broken one too many of the presumably-priceless, but exceedingly ugly, vases that are dotted around the castle)– but at night the nightmares come.

In some of the dreams, he’s running through the castle halls, being pursued by something that he can’t see. In others, he wakes to find the stranger still in bed in the morning, and the light finally reveals the face of a monster, twisted and terrifying. 

Tonight’s dream is the first of its kind and definitely the worst. 

He’d spoken to Steph about the nightmares about a week after they’d started up. “I don’t know where they’ve come from,” he told her. “I was fine before I came home, but after…”

“Maybe it’s because now you have a way to find out who the stranger is. Like, before you had no way of knowing, so it kind of wasn’t an issue? But now you  _ could _ know and since the possibility’s there you can now worry about it.”

“Which means the only way to get them to stop is…”

“To use the lighter.”

“Right. Doesn’t it feel kind of… wrong, though? Like I’m invading their privacy. There’s gotta be a  _ reason _ the lights don’t work.”

She’d just given him a pointed look. “You are  _ literally _ the nosiest person I know. Since when did you care about other people’s privacy?”

She had a point. Tim just… couldn’t do it. Every night, he’d left the lighter on his bedside table, but he just hadn’t been able to light it. He’d just gone to sleep, hoping that the nightmares would eventually go away.

But it’s been weeks, now, and they’re only getting worse.

He lies there for what feels like a long time, but his concept of time has long since been shot, so it could only be a couple of minutes, for all he knows. He hears the stranger’s breathing even out into sleep, and counts the breaths as he shivers on the floor.

Is he really going to do this?

He pushes himself up so that he’s sitting with his back against the bed, and reaches up, fumbling across the bedside table until his hand closes around the lighter. He pulls it back down and holds it to his chest. Breathes. Listens.

Holds the lighter out and flicks down the switch.

The flame flickers to life in his hand and he almost drops it in shock, closing his eyes against the brightness. It’s not brighter than a flame of this size would normally be, but in the all-consuming darkness of his room it burns to behold. He sits for a moment, letting his eyes adjust, and then gets to his feet on still-shaking legs and turns towards the bed. 

The light doesn’t show much more than the vague, large shape of the stranger, wrapped in the blankets, a head of dark hair resting on the pillow. Unnerved, unsure, Tim pads around the bed to the other side, breath caught in his throat.

The face he sees, nestled between blanket and pillow, pinched and unhappy even in sleep, is achingly, painfully familiar.

He thinks,  _ I was right. _

Thinks,  _ oh, thank God. _

Thinks,  _ everything’s going to be okay _ .

And then Bruce’s eyes snap open.

The two of them make eye contact in the flickering firelight, and the look of incomprehension on Bruce’s face upon seeing Tim morphs into one of horror. “No!” he cries, pushing himself up into a sitting position. Tim jerks back, startled, the lighter falling from his hands. He dives for it, not wanting it to hit the rug and catch the room alight, but he’s too slow. 

Except, the lighter never hits the floor– instead it hits snow. Tim chokes on frigid air, blinking in the sudden silvery glow of moonlight. Bruce, kneeling before him, dressed in a soft white shirt and sweatpants, reaches forward and picks up the lighter, clicking it off. The mountains rise up around them, and Tim realises that they must be on the side of the castle. There are things scattered in the snow around them that Tim now realises are his things– his clothes, books, bag, and skateboard. Everything he’d brought to the castle with him from home.

“Bruce,” Tim gasps, breathless. “What– How–”

Bruce closes his eyes, head tilted back, face mournful. Tim stares, but Bruce just kneels there, still as a statue.

“Bruce? Say something, please.”

“The condition I was given,” Bruce says, voice hoarse with disuse, “was that I had to sleep in a bed beside one of my children every night for a year with them never seeing my face or knowing it was me. Do that, and I would be free. I could go home.”

_ Ah.  _ Tim swallows. “I messed up,” he says, voice small. Bruce blinks open his eyes and shakes his head.

“I knew… I knew it was unlikely this would work, right from the start. Even with the magic in place… All of my children are nosy and resourceful and wouldn’t be able to let a mystery like that go. No matter who it would have been, I think this would always be the outcome.”

Tim nods, but he can’t hide the tears in his eyes. He can’t help the thought crossing his mind that  _ he _ is the only one that would have failed like this. Bruce pushes himself to his feet and pulls Tim into his arms. Tim hugs back, burying his face into Bruce’s chest.

“What happens now?” he asks.

“This was… a punishment. The Troll King didn’t like that I’d slept with his daughter, or that we’d had a child out of wedlock who’d been hidden from him all these years. He turned me into a bear, and gave me this challenge. Since I’ve failed… He’ll be here soon to take me away.”

“What?” Tim pulls away. “He can’t! We need you!”

Bruce just shakes his head. “I lost, Tim. We lost. And now… now I’ll be taken to their kingdom, and married to the Princess.”

Tim shakes his head. “No.”

“Tim–”

“We have to fight back! We have to–”

“ _ Tim _ . Listen to me. This is the  _ Troll King _ we’re talking about. If I don’t abide by his rules, after what I’ve done, we’ll never be safe on this side of the leylines ever again. Maybe not even at home. Every troll will be out for our blood. And I don’t want any of you kids to get caught in the crossfire. To be hurt for my mistakes.”

“And you don’t think it hurts us to lose you?”

“I have faith in all of you that you’ll be okay.”

Tim chokes back a sob. “I don’t want this.”

“I know. I know, son. I’m sorry it had to be this way.” Bruce reaches up, wipes away Tim’s tears. “Just know that I’ll miss you every day.”

Tim opens his mouth to reply but is cut off when the sound of sleigh bells begins to echo from the mountains. Both he and Bruce tense; Tim sees Bruce’s eyes flicker to the sky, and follows his gaze to see a sleigh soaring through the air, circling down towards them.

Tim reaches out and grabs Bruce’s arms, squeezing tight enough to bruise. Bruce, to his credit, barely winces. The sleigh touches down, and from it steps a man wearing furs over a high-collared robe, smile pointed and eyes like stone.

“Detective,” he greets. 

“Ra’s,” Bruce returns.

The Troll King’s–  _ Ra’s’ _ – eyes flicker from Bruce to Tim, and his smile turns condescending and smug. Tim feels hatred bubble up in his chest.

“I trust you’ve explained the situation?” Bruce doesn’t reply, but something in his face must confirm Ra’s words. Ra’s nods. “Come along, then.”

Bruce tries to move, but Tim tugs him to a halt. “Don’t go,” he says, and he hates how small and pathetic he sounds. Ra’s grin finally shows his teeth. 

“Are you going to stand for this…  _ display?” _ he asks, words laced with disdain.

“Tim…” Bruce sounds tired, pleading.

“Bruce, please, you can’t, please don’t go…”

As Tim pleads, Bruce reaches over and pries Tim’s fingers away. “It’s okay, Tim,” he says, voice soft. “Just go home.”

And then he’s walking, his back turned to Tim as he climbs onto the sleigh. Tim cries out and tries to lunge for him, but one of the figures on the sleigh moves, and Tim’s being caught by the bald woman, who pushes him back roughly into the snow and barks something at him in troll.

Tim pushes himself up onto his elbows and stares helplessly at the sleigh as it rises into the air. Ra’s raises an arm in a mocking wave. Tim grits his teeth in anger. The sleigh flies higher and higher and then it’s riding off into the distance. The tears on Tim’s cheeks are beginning to freeze, and his fingers and toes are numb.

Bruce never turns around.

* * *

Tim lies there in the snow until he can barely feel his body, and then reluctantly pulls himself up and begins to collect his belongings, stuffing things into his bag and adding more layers to his outfit as he goes, until he’s almost warm. Then, once he’s pretty sure he’s got everything, he clears a patch of rock and sits down, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them.

He needs to get going, he knows. From here, it’ll take several days to walk to the leyline crossing and get home, and the longer he sits here, the worse his chances of getting through the journey unscathed are. But he’s just… so  _ tired _ . The journey is too daunting to consider. He just wants to lie down and sleep until all his problems go away.

…He should have slept and hoped his nightmares would go away.

The weight of his failure descends on him, heavy and painful, and he’s too cold and too spent to cry but he heaves dry sobs into his knees. Bruce is gone, maybe  _ forever _ , and it’s all his fault. Because he couldn’t just let it go. Because he couldn’t be content to have a mystery be unsolved.

He’d done this for Bruce. On the thin hope that this whole endeavour would somehow bring him back.

And he’d lost him instead.

Maybe he should just sit here until the falling snow covers him and the frost seeps into his bones, until he’s just an ice sculpture, another fixture of the mountain. It would be less painful and so much  _ easier _ than seeing his siblings’ faces when he tells them what he’s done. They’d miss him, sure, but at least they’d remember him fondly, without knowing just how badly he’s doomed them all.

“Good morning!” A voice cuts through his thoughts. “I thought I’d check in before breakfast and– Tim? Oh my god, are you okay? What happened?”

Tim takes a shuddering breath and forces himself to move, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. He looks up to see Steph’s projection hovering anxiously above him. “I messed up,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Are you hurt?” Tim shakes his head. “You need to get moving, get out of the cold, or at least out of the snow.”

“You’re right,” Tim whispers.  _ I don’t want to,  _ he doesn’t say.  _ Please don’t make me,  _ he doesn’t beg.  _ Just let me die,  _ he doesn’t dare to even think too loudly, afraid she’ll somehow hear it.

“Tim…?”

Tim shakes his head. “Sorry.” He pushes himself to his feet. Grabs his bag. Tries to walk and stumbles on unsteady legs. Steph darts forward and catches him. She’s not-quite solid, not enough to hold his weight, but her phantom support is enough to prevent him from faceplanting. 

“Which way?” she asks.

“Down,” Tim croaks. Points in the direction that leads towards home. “That way.”

They walk, Tim slowly regaining his strength as they do so, though Steph still hovers to help him should he slip. 

“Are you gonna tell me what happened?” she asks, after a while. Tim flinches.

“I messed up, Steph. I– I ruined everything.” He takes a shaky breath. “I used the lighter.”

“You saw who it was?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“...Well?” 

“It was…” Tim swallows hard. “It was Bruce.”

Steph stops so suddenly that Tim almost trips. “Sorry, what?”

“It was Bruce.”

“You mean… You were  _ right? _ He’s alive?”

“Is it really that hard to believe I was right?”

“I mean…” Tim punches her lightly in the shoulder. She glares at him. “It’s pretty unbelievable.” 

“Yeah,” Tim sighs. “It’s not like it matters, anyway. I messed up.”

“...What do you mean?”

“I broke the condition. If I slept beside him every day for a year without seeing his face, he would have been free to come home.”

“But you saw him.”

“I saw him, and the Troll King took him away.”

“Tim…”

“We’re never going to see him again! We were so close and it’s all my fault and–”

“Tim! Breathe.” Tim glares at her, but does as she says, sucking in large breaths. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“We could have had him  _ back _ , Steph.” 

“I know,” Steph whispers. 

“I feel like…” 

“Like?”

“I feel like I killed him.”

Steph stiffens, and then lunges forward, grabbing his hands. “You didn’t kill him, Tim.”

“May as well have. Now he’s going to some secret troll kingdom and being married off to their princess against his will and we’re never going to see him again and it’s all my fault–” 

“Wait, the troll princess, like Damian’s mom?”

Tim blinks, caught off-guard. Steph is grinning, and he can’t figure out why, because this situation is so far from being anything to grin about. “Uh, yeah? Why are you doing that with your face?”

“Damian probably knows where the Troll King is taking him!”

Tim blinks. Lets that set in. Grins back. “We can go get him.”

“We can go get him!” Steph agrees. “But you gotta get your ass back home first, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Tim says. “Okay. Let’s go.”

He sets off with renewed vigour, Steph’s projection scrambling after him.  _ It’s gonna be okay,  _ he tells himself.  _ We’ll get him back. _

_ This isn’t over yet. _

* * *

The sun is high in the sky by the time Tim reaches the base of the mountain. Steph has long since disappeared, having things to do back at the manor, and Tim finds himself missing her presence.

He stops to rest by a small stream that’s trickling down from the slopes. He breaks the thin layer of ice covering it and drinks the water with his hands until he feels full and bloated, and then places a couple of the ice shards in his mouth as he continues on his journey.

He reaches the edge of the mountain range as the sun dips below the horizon and finds shelter for the night under a natural lean-to of rocks. Sleep doesn’t come easily, and when it does it’s fleeting; he wakes up often, sweating and breathless from indistinct, unhappy dreams. By the time dawn arrives, he’s aching and exhausted and feels no more rested than he had when he’d settled down for the night.

He drags himself to his feet, and starts walking.

Eventually he finds himself on a woodland path, smooth and well-travelled, and pulls his skateboard out from his bag. Skating is much faster than walking, and by late afternoon he finds himself at a small fence surrounding a cabin in the woods.

He hesitates by the gate for a while, weighing the benefits of checking it out versus continuing on, when the door to the cabin opens and a girl walks out. She’s athletic and blonde and calling something over her shoulder, and Tim freezes in place as she spots him hovering by the fence.

“Can I help you?” she calls out to him. Tim swallows.

“I, uh, I’m just passing through,” he stammers out. She looks him up and down, judgement and concern creasing her brow.

“Come in,” she says. “You look like you could do with a proper meal and a good nap.”

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother–”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not a bother, I’m being nice, and you’re going to accept my offer. C’mon.”

Tim shuts his mouth, picks up his skateboard, and walks through the gate. The girl ushers him in through the door. “Mom!” she yells. “We have a visitor!”

A woman looks up from where she’s bending over a pot hanging over a fireplace. She has dark hair and glasses and a kind face, and she smiles at him as he enters, though that smile quickly turns into a frown.

“You look like you’ve had a rough time,” she tells him. “Come, sit down. I’m Helena, and this is my daughter, Cassandra.”

“Cassie,” Cassandra tells him.

“That’s my sister’s name,” Tim tells her. “We call her Cass.”

“And do you have a name, woods boy?”

Oh, right. “Tim,” he tells her, sliding into a seat at their large wooden table.

“So, Tim,” Helena says, sliding a bowl of stew across the table towards him, “Are you on a Quest?”

Tim blinks, confused for a moment at the emphasis on the last word, before he remembers Dick’s explanation of this world’s concept of the Quest. He nods. “Yeah, I am. It’s, uh, not going so well.”

Helena shoots him a sympathetic look. “Perhaps you should tell us about it,” she tells him, serving up two more bowls of stew. As she puts them down at the table, she shoots a look at Cassie, who’s sunk down into the seat next to Tim. “Cassie, the water?”

“Oh, right!” Cassie says, getting to her feet. “Be right back!”

She takes off, floating several feet above the ground. Tim looks after her, wide-eyed, and then turns back to Helena. Helena smiles at him.

“Cassandra’s father had a… unique skill set. I actually met him on  _ my _ Quest, though I was a little older than you.” Her smile turns into more of a smirk. “I’d tell you the story, but Cassie hates it.” 

“What do I hate?” Cassie asks, returning with a pitcher of water, which she uses to fill three wooden cups before placing it in the centre of the table.

“The story of how I met your father.”   
Cassie pulls a face. “Yeah, because it’s gross. I don’t want to think about that!”

Tim smiles as he takes the cup Cassie offers to him and sips from the water. It suddenly dawns on him just how thirsty he is, and he downs the whole thing as Cassie and Helena watch on in astonishment. Placing the cup back down on the table, he feels his cheeks flush as he grins sheepishly. “Sorry.”   
“It’s no bother,” Helena tells him. “Would you like a refill?”

“Please.”

Helena refills his cup, and then the three of them tuck into the stew. Tim devours the stew with as much vigour as he had the water, as he suddenly realises that he hasn’t eaten more than a handful of berries or edible leaves here and there as he’d walked. 

Cassie refills his bowl without a word but with an amused, not-entirely-benevolent smirk on her face. As he eats his second portion, Tim fills the two of them in on his family situation, his time with the bear, and the way he’d failed to fulfil the Troll King’s conditions and doomed his adoptive father to a lifetime of isolation in the Troll Kingdom.

“So I’m going home,” he tells them. “I’m going to see if my brother knows his way there, and we’re going to get Bruce back.”

“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” Helena tells him sympathetically. “You’re welcome to stay here for the night. We don’t have a spare bed, but there’s a skin rug that is quite comfortable.”

“Oh.” Tim blinks, surprised. “Thank you. And thank you for the meal, too.”

“Of course,” Helena says, gathering up the now empty dishes. “You’re on your Quest. Who would we be, to turn you away?”

She gets up and leaves the room. Tim shoots Cassie a quizzical look, and she sighs.

“It’s just what you do,” she explains. “If someone’s on a Quest and needs shelter, you let them into your home, at least for a night. You make sure they’re well, and you send them on their way with a token.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “Have you been on your Quest?”

Cassie shakes her head. “I should,” she says. “I’m at that age, you know? I know Mom’s expecting me to leave. But I don’t…” She glances up at the door Helena had left through. “Most of the time, when kids leave on their Quest, they don’t come back. And I don’t want to leave just yet.”

Tim shakes his head. “I can’t imagine that just… being a normal thing you’re expected to do. Just, leave everything behind and never come back.”

Cassie shrugs. “Very few people are born where they actually belong.” She gets to her feet suddenly, and Tim feels knocked off-balance. “Come on. I’ll get you a blanket. You look exhausted.”

Tim follows her wordlessly, not sure how to take her statement. Cassie heads over to what looks like an airing cupboard, and pulls out a woolen blanket before leading him through an archway into what appears to be a sitting-workroom. There’s a battered loveseat and a matching armchair alongside an old wooden rocking chair arranged around a large bearskin rug. Pushed against one wall is a worktable covered in papers and tools, a small bookshelf, a loom and a sewing machine.

“You gonna be alright in here, Woods Boy?” Cassie asks him as she throws the blanket she’s carrying at him. Tim catches it.

“I’ll be fine,” he says.

She nods. “Yell if anything attacks you at night.”

“Is that likely?” Cassie shrugs. Tim glances out the window, where nightfall has turned the woods into an indistinguishable dark shape. “I can handle myself,” he assures her.

“And I have super-strength,” she tells him. “Yell.”

“Right.” Tim nods. “Will do. Goodnight, Cassie.”

“Night, Tim.”

Cassie flies out of the room. Tim makes his way to the rug, feeling his stomach lurch as he looks at it.  _ It’s not them _ , he tells himself. The bear’s fur is brown, not black like Bruce’s or Cass’, and it’s far too large to be either of them. Still, he can’t help the unease as he sinks down into the fur and pulls the blanket over him.

* * *

Sleep comes easier under a roof, warm and safe and fed, but that just means that his dreams are clearer and more vivid. He dreams of Bruce, stood in the snow, face stormy and livid. “How could you do this to me, Tim?” Bruce roars. “I trusted you not to fail me. Look what you’ve done!”

Tim chokes on tears and protests. “Bruce–” he gasps. “Bruce, I’m sorry–” But then Bruce is gone, and Ra’s is standing in his place, a smug smile on his face. 

“Don’t be so pathetic,” he tells Tim. “You disgrace your father’s name.” And he stretches out his hand and Tim feels his body being twisted, in that strange, disconnected, phantom-painful way that injuries happen in dreams, and his skin is flayed from his bones and replaced with thick hide and thick fur and his fingers curl into claws and his nose grows and is crushed into a snout and then he is a bear, cowering in the snow, and he is alone now. He raises his muzzle to the air and cries out for help, but no words come out, only growls and gruffs and roars, and he can’t even cry from the pain of it.

Time passes in a weird, hazy way, and then he’s standing in the manor’s kitchen door. “Please,” he’s begging, “Somebody. Just one person. Just one year.”

“Sorry,” Dick tells him, holding their siblings tight, “We won’t lose anyone else.” And Tim wants to beg, wants to tell him that this is the only way to get the ones they’ve lost back, but he’s not allowed the words, his tongue twisting painfully in his mouth. 

And now Damian is standing above him, a knife gripped hard in one hand. “I’ll never let you taint my homeland,” he proclaims. “And I will never let you again taint this home. I’m here now. They don’t need  _ you _ anymore.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Especially not like  _ this _ .” And then he brings the knife down and Tim has just enough time to conceive that this is a  _ mercy kill _ before he’s gasping awake, golden morning light streaming through the window of the wooden cabin.

* * *

Helena gives him bread and water for breakfast, and fusses over him as he readies himself to head off. Cassie picks up Tim’s skateboard from where he’d left it by his bag at the front door, and takes her time inspecting it before putting it on the ground and attempting to use it. The only thing that prevents her from falling flat on her face is her ability to fly and pick herself up midair. Tim snickers at her, and she glares at him before thrusting it back towards him.

“Who needs a… wheeled board? I can just fly places,” she huffs.

“Sure,” Tim says. “I could always teach you how to use it.”

She shakes her head. “You’re leaving.”   
“I could come back. I’ll even bring you your own skateboard.”

Cassie hesitates. “Do what you want,” she says, finally. Tim smiles at her, and places the board down on the ground, ready to mount it. 

“Got everything?” Helena checks. Tim opens his mouth to reply when he notices that she’s looking pointedly at Cassie as she says it. Cassie gasps and rushes inside, and returns seconds later with a small golden six-sided die, the type with pips instead of numbers pressed into the sides.

“For you,” she says, pushing it into Tim’s hands.

“Um…” Tim frowns at it, unsure of what to do. Cassie rolls her eyes.

“It’s a  _ token _ ,” she tells him. “You’re meant to give them to people on Quests.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Just in case it’s useful.” 

Tim looks down at the die once more, before putting it into his bag. “Thank you,” he says, addressing both of them. “For letting me stay, and eat your food, and for the token and the advice.”

“Of course,” Helena says. “You’re very welcome. Best of luck on your Quest, Tim!”

“Kick that Troll King’s ass!” Cassie adds, only to be elbowed by her mother for her trouble. Tim bites back a laugh and waves.

“Goodbye!” he calls, and skates down the road and away. 

* * *

Tim reaches the schoolhouse as the colours of sunset are staining the world red and gold. He’s left the woods, now out on the moors, where the school sits atop a hill that shelters a hamlet in the shade at its base. There’s a boy sitting on a bench outside of the building, swinging his legs and pulling a face.

“Isn’t school over?” he calls to the boy. The boy looks up, surprised. 

“I don’t go here,” he explains.

“No?” Tim asks. “You don’t live in the village?”   
The boy shakes his head, wild auburn hair swishing around him. “I’m just passing through,” he says, grinning. 

“Me too,” Tim says.

“Yeah?” the boy questions. “Where’re you headed?”

“Home.”

“Which way’s home?” Tim points West, towards the setting son. The boy pulls a face. “Ah, not my way. I could’ve given you a lift, otherwise.”

“A lift?” Tim asks. 

“Sure,” the boy says. Tim eyes his lithe frame with doubt, and the boy scowls. “Hey! I’m stronger than I look, y'know. I’ve felled trees!” He shakes his head. “Besides, that’s not what I meant. I’m fast.”

“Fast?”

“Fast as the wind,” the boy agrees. Then, apropos of nothing, he holds out a hand toward Tim. “Hey, I’m Bart. And you are–?” 

“Tim,” Tim says. He reaches out to shake the boy’s hand, and is taken aback when the boy– Bart– high-fives him instead. “You do high fives in this world?”

Bart shrugs.  _ “I _ do high-fives. I’ve been beyond the leylines, you know.”

“You have?”

“Sure. Hey, do you have somewhere to stay tonight? You could camp out up here with me.”

“In the schoolhouse?”

“On the roof! You get the best view of the stars from up here.”

Tim hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Sure. Why not?”

Bart grins at him and holds out a hand. Tim takes it.

* * *

“Hey, dude, wake up!”

Tim comes too gasping for breath, a scream burning in the back of his throat. Bart is leaning over him, face pinched with concern. “You were thrashing around in your sleep,” Bart says. 

“Nightmare,” Tim explains, voice hoarse.

“Huh. Get them often?”

“Recently,” Tim replies. 

“Sucks,” Bart says. Tim shrugs.

“Thanks for waking me.”

“Of course! What are friends for?”

Tim shoots him a strange look. “We’ve only just met.”

“What are strangers if not future-friends?”

There’s a lot to unpack there, so Tim decides to just throw away the whole sentence. “Sorry for waking you,” he says instead.

“I wasn’t sleeping, don’t worry about it.”

“How come?”

“I don’t sleep.”

“You don’t… sleep.”

“Nope! Never slept in my life.”

“How are you…” Tim shakes his head. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know.” 

Bart lays back down, shoulder-to-shoulder with Tim. “The stars are different,” he says suddenly.

“Huh?”

“Here, and on your side of the Lines. The stars are different.”

Tim looks up at the stars. He doesn’t often get to see them in Gotham, what with all the light pollution– even in Bristol you can only see a scarce handful on a good day. He remembers going on a camping trip once with Bruce, just the two of them. It had been the first time Tim had seen the stars,  _ really _ seen the stars, and the sight had taken his breath away.

It’s like that here, beyond the leylines, the bright splashes of colour and light that adorn the sky. Looking up at them, Tim looks for the familiar constellations– Orion, the Dipper– and finds himself coming up short. “Huh,” he says. “I’ve never noticed that before.”

“I spend a lot of time up there,” Bart explains.

“In… the stars?”

“Not quite  _ that _ high.” 

“You can fly, then?”

“Ehhh…” Bart waves his hand. “Not quite.”

“You are the most confusing person I have ever met.”

“Hey, I’ll take it!” Bart grins. “You know, there are constellations here, too, with their own stories, but I always struggle to remember ‘em. I just make up my own.”

“Do you remember those ones?”

“Nope! I improv new ones every time. Like, uhh… Okay, you see that circle of stars right there? That’s a baseball.”

“A baseball.”

“Yep! And the story behind it is that some aliens came down to earth one day and threatened to destroy the planet… Unless the children who attended this school could defeat them in a game of baseball.”

“Does this world even have baseball?”

“Does it matter?”

“And isn’t this world flat? It’s not really a  _ planet _ .” 

“Dude, c’mon, you gotta suspend your disbelief! It’s a story, it doesn’t  _ have _ to make sense.”

“Okay, okay! So, what happens?”

“The kids win, of course. One of them hits the baseball so hard it flies straight up into the sky and lands amongst the stars.”

“And they win because of that?”

“Yeah, the aliens think that’s super rad, and they admit defeat and go back home.”

“I wish my problems could be solved by winning a game of baseball.” Tim sighs. 

“In my experience, most problems can be solved by games. That is, if you make your problems into a game.”

“You have an…  _ unusual _ outlook on the world, Bart.”

Bart shrugs and shoots finger guns at Tim. “I will take that as a compliment!” Then he frowns, tilting his head and sitting up. Tim frowns back and pushes himself up too, glancing nervously around for any signs of trouble. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing. The winds are changing, is all.”

“The winds?”

“Yeah, and that’s  _ kind _ of my cue to leave.” He winces. “Sorry, dude. It was fun hanging out with you!”

“Uh, yeah.” Tim blinks as Bart gets to his feet and walks to the edge of the roof. “Bye, I guess?”

“Oh!” Bart digs around in his pockets for an amount of time that’s almost comical– how large are those pockets?– before making a triumphant noise and pulling out a small cardboard box. “Here,” he says, tossing them to Tim; Tim just barely avoids fumbling the catch. “A token. For your Quest!” He salutes. “And if you ever have reason to be headed North, just hit me up!”

And then he’s off, running through the night sky until he’s nothing more than a blur and a rush of air, and Tim thinks,  _ Oh, that’s what he meant by fast _ . Then he thinks,  _ How am I meant to hit him up? _ Bart hadn’t left him with any means of contact.

He finds himself smiling at that and looks down at the box he’s holding. It’s a box of cards, he realises now, looking at it, and slides the top open to shake the deck out into his hand. Tarot cards, it looks like. No Major Arcana, just the Minor.

_ Weird _ . He slides them back into the box and sticks them in his bag. 

* * *

The fourth day of his journey picks up about half way through when he crosses a stream and suddenly realises that he knows where he is. Not only does he know where he is, but he knows that home isn’t too far– and that a friend is even closer.

His pace picks up alongside his heartbeat as he races through the forest– the  _ orchard _ – out into open field, spotting the quaint farmhouse and the old barn with its weathervane and there, leaning against a rake and grinning down at a big white dog is–

“Conner!”

Conner looks up, startled, and grins when he sees Tim. He breaks out into a jog and meets Tim half-way across the field, Tim breathless and sweating as Kon pulls him into a hug.

“Hey, dude!” Conner pulls back. “It’s been a while since you came round. You decided you don’t want to see me?”

Tim shakes his head. “It’s been a  _ really _ weird year.”   
Conner frowns at him. “Come inside,” he says. “I think Ma made lemonade, and we might even have some extra pie left, if you’re lucky.”

Tim grins. “Man, it’s been  _ forever _ since I had Ma’s cooking.” Ma Kent’s cooking was just as good as Alfred’s– don’t tell anyone Tim said this, but maybe even  _ better _ . Her waffles definitely were. Alfred had never gotten the hang of the things, and nobody had ever had the heart to tell him.

The two of them head into the Kent’s farmhouse. “Ma and Pa are at the market today,” Conner explains as he busies himself getting their drinks.

“What about Clark?” Tim asks, taking a seat at the large kitchen table.

“Oh, he’s been staying with Lois at her place in the city.” Conner places a glass of lemonade down in front of Tim, who takes a grateful sip as Kon turns to serve them slices of pie. “He comes by at the weekend sometimes.” He slides a plate of pie across the table and throws a fork that Tim catches mid-air, before sitting in the chair opposite Tim with his own plate. “But enough about my family,” he says. “What about you? I know things must have been tough, what with… y’know, Bruce and all.”

Tim’s stomach does an uncomfortable anxious flip. He stares down at his plate, places the fork to the side, and sighs. Kon watches him, concern written in his face. “It’s a long story,” Tim says.

“I’ve got time,” Conner replies.

So Tim tells him about the bear, and about the castle, and the trip home and the lighter and seeing Bruce’s face. Conner’s expression grows troubled as he listens, but he doesn’t interrupt, allowing Tim to finish, “I’m going to get him back. I  _ have _ to get him back.”

“Of course,” Conner says. “If anyone can do it, you can.”

Tim shoots him a small smile at that. “Thanks, Kon.”

“So, do you want any company on your Bruce-quest?” Conner asks, picking up their now empty plates and taking them over to the sink.

“I was going to go home, and pick up my siblings,” Tim admits. “They should know. And,” he pulls a face, “I need Damian’s help to find him.”

Kon pulls a face back at him, amusement in his eyes. “At least let me walk you the rest of the way home,” he says. Tim nods.

“Yeah,” he says, “sure.” Then, “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” Conner says. “After all, what’re friends for?”

* * *

They walk back through the orchards, flipping between casual chatter and comfortable silence. Kon plucks two apples out of a tree and offers one to Tim, before crunching on his own. Tim takes a bite– the apple is sweet and crisp and good.

They emerge from the trees, and Tim can see the leyline crossing up ahead, the strange gate-like figure of two trees entwined together at the branches.

“Here we are,” he says.

“Here we are,” Kon echoes. “Oh, here.” He holds out a finger to Tim, and Tim frowns.

“This is… an apple pip,” he says, confused. Conner shrugs, face flushed.

“You’re on a Quest, right? It’s only right of me to give you a token.”   
“So… An apple pip?” Tim fights back a smirk. 

“It’s all I’ve got,” Conner says, his voice not quite a whine. “If you don’t want it–”

“No, I want it,” Tim says, grabbing it off of Conner’s finger before he can retract it. “Thanks.” He slides it into his pocket, and hopes he doesn’t lose the thing. 

“I meant it, you know,” Conner says. “You  _ can _ do this. I believe in you.”

Something inside Tim feels warm and heavy. “Thank you,” he says, and surges forward, pulling Kon into a hug. Kon hugs him back. “I’ll come and see you when we get back,” he says, pulling away. “No more months without saying hi, okay?”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Conner says. “Bye, Tim.”

“Bye, Kon.”

“Good luck!” 

Tim waves over his shoulder as he heads to the gateway, steeling himself for the conversation he’s about to have. Taking a deep breath, he steps forward, and into another world.

It’s a grey, drizzly day on this side of the lines. The golden leaves of autumn have begun to turn brown and drop to the ground. The manor stands atop the hill, large and imposing and  _ home _ . Tim breathes in the scent of mulch and stone and starts walking.

He heads in through the back door this time, not wanting to announce his arrival. The kitchen is empty, and a brief glance at the clock tells him it’s mid-afternoon, in the space between lunch and dinner. He takes off his shoes and leaves his pack by the door, and then heads on in.

The person he sees, by complete coincidence, is Cass, who freezes upon spotting him in the hallway. Tim freezes, too, watches her eyes scan over him. “Something is wrong,” she says.

“Hey, Cass,” Tim greets lamely.

“You’re not hurt?” she asks. Tim shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “No, I just… I need to talk to you. All of you.”

Cass rakes her eyes over him again, then nods. “We’ll meet you in the den,” she says. Tim nods, smiles at her.

“Thanks, Cass.”

She smiles back and then turns on her heel. Tim watches her go before turning and walking himself to the den and collapsing into a couch. God, he’s tired. He didn’t realise how much his feet were aching before he sat down.

Duke is the first one into the room, followed shortly by Harper and Cullen. “You’re back,” Duke says, a little breathless. “I thought you weren’t going to be back for another four months!”

The smile that had brightened Tim’s face at seeing his siblings drops. “Stuff happened,” he says, shrugging. “I’ll explain when everyone’s here.”

“Right,” Duke agrees, flopping down into the couch opposite him. “Are you… okay?” 

Tim shrugs again. “I… Yeah. I’m fine.” He runs a hand across his face. “I just don’t really want to have this conversation.”

Harper plants herself down next to Tim, Cullen on her other side. “We’ve got your back,” she tells him. Tim leans into her side.

“Thanks, Harp.”

After that, Steph arrives, taking a seat on Tim’s other side, and then Damian, who climbs up into an armchair and perches there, glaring.  _ Lovely.  _ Babs arrives, floating on her broom, and lowering herself onto the couch beside Duke. Finally, Cass arrives with Dick in tow, who makes a beeline for Tim. 

“Tim,” he says, voice full of desperation and distress, and then he stops, stilted, unsure. “You used the lighter.”

“I did.”

“And… You didn’t like what you saw?” Dick’s voice is hesitant.  _ Afraid.  _ And that’s when Tim realises that his brother thinks he’s here because he was sleeping beside a monster, beside someone who tried to hurt him. He bites back a harsh laugh.

“It was Bruce,” he says, voice quiet, a hard edge to his tone. 

Dick recoils, eyes widening. “What?”

“I was right,” Tim says, louder this time. “Bruce is alive. Bruce was the bear.”

The room erupts into chaos. 

“What?” Cullen says, voice carrying over the flurry of demands. “How?”

“Quiet,” Cass snaps, and everyone shuts up almost immediately. “Let Tim explain.”

Tim shoots her a grateful look, before explaining to his siblings the mystery of his nighttime visitor. The others react with varying degrees of alarm, but are prevented from interrupting by Cass’ stern glare. “When I came back for a visit, Dick gave me a lighter that can always be lit,” he says. “So I– I used it. To see the stranger’s face. And it was Bruce.”

“So why are you here?” Cullen asks. “Where’s Bruce?”

Tim stares down at his hands. “Bruce was cursed,” he explains. “He had to live his days as a bear, and then, every night for a year, he had to sleep beside one of his children without them ever knowing it was him. Should he succeed, he’d be able to go free. Should he fail, he’d be taken away to the troll kingdom to marry their princess.”

Silence falls across the room. Tim doesn’t want to see the way they’re looking at him. Just  _ feeling _ their gazes on him is bad enough. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages. 

“No,” Dick says, “I’m sorry.” Tim glances up at him in surprise, sees the grief in his older brother’s eyes. “I should have trusted you.”

Tim shrugs. “You were trying to help.” He can’t help the twinge of bitterness he feels deep within him, though. He had been  _ so _ close. If only he’d listened to the bear– to  _ Bruce _ . If only he hadn’t spoken to Dick alone.

“But we’re going to get him back,” Steph says. “Right, Tim? That’s the plan.”

Tim glances at her and nods. “Right. Yeah. That’s the plan.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees confusion, surprise, relief, splattered across his siblings’ faces. Duke says, “you have a plan?”

“Kind of,” Tim says. He turns to the armchair. “It really all depends on you.”

Damian’s lip curls. “You want to go against my grandfather,” he says. 

“It’s the only way to get Bruce back,” Tim replies. 

“You’ll fail,” is Damian’s response.

“You don’t have to come with us,” he says, “I just need you to tell me where he is.”

“How should _ I  _ know?” Damian asks. Tim raises his eyebrows at him. Damian huffs. “You can’t get there.”

“I know you don’t think very highly of me–”

“No,” Damian interrupts. “You misunderstand me. No human can enter the Kingdom of the Trolls without guidance.”

“So you’ll guide us,” Steph says, like it’s simple. Damian shakes his head.

“I don’t know how to get there,” he admits reluctantly. Tim’s heart sinks in his chest.

“What do you mean you don’t know how to get there? Didn’t you live there?”

Damian nods. “Well, yes. But the Kingdom of the Trolls, it lies east of the sun and west of the moon.”

Tim’s brow furrows as he turns over the information. “That’s impossible,” he says. Damian nods again, expression grim.

“Exactly. The place you seek lies in a place that does not exist, and I  _ cannot _ take you there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to ProudBadger who left a comment on the previous chapter calling exactly what was going to happen. that comment honestly made my day.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to come hmu over at @bullyingbatman on tumblr, where you can also find the art pieces i've done for the bang!


End file.
